


Rule Number Nowhere

by Phosphorite



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst and Feels, Canon Universe, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Medium Burn, dumb teenagers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-03-19 12:51:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 43,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13704828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phosphorite/pseuds/Phosphorite
Summary: There are three rules to being friends with the Crown Prince of Lucis.Rule number one: Don't get killed.Rule number two: Don't get jailed.Rule number three: Don't get too involved.“You know what, Prom?” Noctis says and cracks the joints of his fingers in a swift move. "To me, that kinda sounds like a challenge."or, a bad romantic comedy and/or Greek tragedy in seven parts.[rated for later chapters]





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!
> 
> So, I said I'd write something happy to account for the roller coaster I wrote last time. I succeeded... sorta. This story was meant to be a quick in-and-out of dumb teenage hijinks, and then somehow it turned into something way, way more. Whether that's a good or a bad thing is, again, for you to decide.
> 
> I will update this (hopefully) in weekly instalments, hence the length of each chapter. At the moment of writing I'm looking at a total of five chapters, but we'll see how that goes. This is a 100% self-indulgent story, but I hope someone else likes it too.
> 
> (Also, don't worry - there's no twists this time.)

 

 

if this is a rom-com,  
kill the director, please

\- _Kill the Director_ , The Wombats

 

  

Friendships have such odd rules.

That’s the primary reason Prompto never had any growing up, anyway. According to the _Friendship Rule Book_ that every other classmate of his seemed have a copy of, you couldn’t make friends with nerds. Fat kids? Hah, no chance. Adopted ones? Yeah, tough shit, buddy. Sure, he never quite figured out the _why_ part of any of this, but if it said so in the _Rule Book_ then it must have been true.

Lady Lunafreya hadn’t seemed to know about the book though. Probably because she wasn’t from Lucis, or maybe they just didn’t have the same edition. After all, she wouldn’t have insisted he make friends with the _Prince_ of all people – not if she thought Prompto broke any of the rules.

“Dude,” he remembers Noctis saying one afternoon some three years later, one hand shoved into a bag of potato chips and the other fishing for the remote, “You do realize there’s, like, no actual book of friendship, right? Those kids were just being assholes to you.”

Of course, Prompto had always known this deep down, but it was also easier to believe in something bigger than them to swallow down the hurt. Still, none of it had mattered since the day Noctis had looked at him with that _I have no idea if you’re high on something but alright_ face of his, and the two of them had become inseparable.

Here’s the curveball, though: some friendships _do_ come with rules.

More specifically, friendships with the Crown Prince of Lucis definitely do, and it just so happens that he finds this out roughly one year later, in a scene much like the one they shared at fifteen; only this time the bag of potato chips is a bottle of some elaborate cooking alcohol, one that tastes absolutely rank but makes Noctis laugh a little harder at the nosedive his character takes into a fiery pit of doom.

“Dude,” Prompto says, blinking twice, and points at the screen with his own controller, “You do realize there’s, like, no actual way we’re gonna beat this level if you keep messing up our synchros, right?”

“I got this, I got this,” Noctis insists as the level resets, and pushes up against the back of the couch as though it’ll grant him the extra aim needed to land this grapple hook. Turns out, Noctis does not in fact have this, and the next attempt ends with Prompto’s character skewered in a vat of spikes.

“Son of a––“ Prompto blurts out, and shoves at Noctis’ knee on instinct – only the stuff they’ve swiped from one of Ignis’ food cabinets is strong enough to make him miscalculate his strength, and he ends up pushing Noctis off the entire couch.

There’s a brief moment of mortification, like a scene that plays out in slow motion: Noctis loses his balance, and does a pretty impressive impersonation of his game character’s lunge as his elbow collides with the coffee table, and the slam lands the few half-empty soft drink cans directly into Prompto’s lap.

Naturally, Ignis chooses this exact moment to pick up Noctis’ laundry.

The five-second blank stare he gives at the scene is enough to send Prompto stumbling into the bathroom at once; it might be a little traitorous to abandon Noctis like this, but Prompto’s still sort of getting used to the idea of not having to fear for his life around Ignis (or Gladio, though he thinks Noctis’ advisor is far scarier in that regard). Plus, he’s got three types of exotic fruit concoctions already drying on his jeans, which is _not_ going to make for a fun walk home.

It’s a little awkward to stand there in his underwear running warm water over said jeans, but it’s far more awkward once he turns off the faucet and catches the rest of Noctis and Ignis’ conversation currently taking place:

“…verlook tonight, on the account that it was His Majesty’s wish that you experience a… normal youth, whatever that might… entail. However, I still feel it’s my responsibility to remind you of the three rules that are nonetheless in effect regarding any friendships you wage.”

Perhaps it’s that word – _rules_ – that piques Prompto’s interest, and he finds himself pressing an entire ear against the door.

Noctis’ response is something akin to a groan, elaborate as ever; this clearly does not deter Ignis, who goes on to explain: “Noct, they are not rocket science. One, you must try not to get yourself killed. Two, you must try not to cause a scandal by getting in trouble with the law. And three…”

It is here that Ignis’ voice grows a little lower, and Prompto has to really make an effort to catch his following words.

“…The third rule might be the most important of all, considering I have not seen you as–– _fond_ of a friend, not since Lady Lunafreya. But you know you cannot get too involved.”

This seems to finally rouse Noctis’ verbal skills, as much as it lodges something in Prompto’s throat. “What the hell?”

“You know what I mean,” comes the calm response, and the sound of what must be Ignis picking up cans off the floor. “It’s no secret that Argen–– _Prompto_ appears to be precisely the kind of person who… might imprint on someone, like a baby bird. You would do well not to take advantage of this loyalty by accident – or lead him on to expect things that can never be.”

Something swirls in Prompto’s head, and he’s not sure if it’s the alcohol or his nerves or both.

The worst part is, he both does and doesn’t understand what Ignis is referring to; sure, yeah, Noctis is probably the best thing that has happened to him in like, ever, and that’s a whole lot of power to give to just one person. But whatever Ignis means about _leading on_ or _expectations_ , it makes no sense – he’d never expect _anything_ out of Noctis, he’s cool with whatever this friendship is, even if Noctis decides the only type of communication he wants is through two cans attached by a wire––

“Lay off it, okay? Prom–– Prompto’s not like that. He’s not… he’s not some loser you can just make do whatever you want.”

At the sound of Noctis’ annoyance, Prompto’s heart skips a beat.

When the response comes, Ignis sounds a little different – like he’s smiling, maybe, but that couldn’t possibly be.

“…Nonetheless,” Ignis says, “One day you will be King, and your father simply wants to spare you from the pain of having to say goodbye to precious… friends, simply because of your status.”

“…Whatever,” Noctis says, “All of that… can go choke.”

Yeah, he’s still definitely a little drunk, but for whatever reason Ignis saves that particular lecture for another day. Prompto waits until the sound of the front door closing before re-emerging from the bathroom, looking a little sheepish while sporting one of the fluffy towels like this season’s hottest fashion.

“I, uh… might need to borrow some clothes, man.”

Noctis, well, he simply gives him a non-committal wave, one that Prompto correctly interprets as _yeah pick up whatever you want_ ; it’s obvious Ignis’ words have left him in a state of thought, but looks oddly determined once Prompto returns.

“You heard all of that, right?” he asks, and Prompto cannot muster up the energy to lie.

When he nods, Noctis groans and rests his head against the back of the couch. “Great. So, the three rules of friendship, according to the gospel of Iggy: Don’t get killed, don’t get jailed, and don’t get too involved.”

Prompto opens his mouth, to say something – like, maybe _It’s cool, I get they’re just looking out for you_ , or maybe _Don’t worry about it buddy, who the hell am I anyway right_ , or even _So how about that game, you think we could clear that level before my jeans get dry_ – but he manages none of this before Noctis’ head shoots back up.

He looks defiant, far too much for someone next in succession to rule this country.

“You know what, Prom?” Noctis says and cracks the joints of his fingers in a swift move.

“…What?” Prompto echoes, because he’s pretty sure the next thing that comes out of Noctis’ mouth is either something very incredible or something very detrimental to his health.

“To me, that kinda sounds like a challenge,” Noctis says with a smile that’s wry and foreboding all at once, and Prompto realizes he should have known to expect both.

*

 A challenge, it turns out over the course of their senior year, is more or less code for _how much shit can we possibly get away with without technically breaking the rules._  

Prompto doesn’t mind, though.

One, they make a pretty damn good team, and two, he’s never had this much fun in his life. Sure, the _Don’t get killed_ rule doesn’t always work in Prompto’s favour, especially when it comes to landing face first into a metal bar after a brief but embarrassing period where he thinks skateboards are totally cool (“I mean, I can get from A to B even faster than running, how _awesome_ is that?!” “Uhh… yeah, I guess…”).

At first, it’s nothing too ambitious, though. Sneaking out at night, or trading dinner for Crow’s Nest. Skipping class for afternoon matinees, the boring cheap ones where Noctis always falls asleep and his head lolls over to Prompto’s shoulder. While the novelty of skipping class eventually wears off, the novelty of the head-lolling does not; Prompto’s not sure why he makes a note of this, but like the feeling that often chases him in the dark, he tries not to dwell on it for long.

After all, Prompto won’t–– he doesn’t–– well, he’s determined not to make Ignis’ words of caution come true. For one, Prompto’s not a baby chocobo; he doesn’t walk around imprinting on people, any more than he’d jump off a cliff simply because Noctis asked him to.

Alright, so maybe that’s a bad comparison – since it’s exactly what Noctis _does_ ask Prompto to do, the next time they leave Insomnia for an excursion to the beach.

“Dude, we can’t–– the water’s gotta be _freezing_. It’s September!”

Noctis looks uncharacteristically vexed, as though his desire to argue Prompto’s point is hindered by his agreement with Prompto’s words. “Look, I–– I know, alright? But unless we swim across the gulf, I can’t reach the hidden fishing spot.”

Prompto feels like rolling his eyes so hard they fall off his head.

“Just warp there?” he suggests instead, folding his arms across his chest. He’s spent at least twenty minutes on his hair this morning, and he’s not hot on throwing all that away just because of Noctis’s fish-tracked brain. “I’m sure you could reach it from here. I’ve seen you go longer.”

Noctis shifts his weight from one foot to another, before he responds with a mutter: “…I wanted to go with you, though.”

It comes out so grumpy that Prompto almost chokes on his snort. Were this anyone else, it might sound like a guilt-trip; but spoiled and juvenile as parts of Noctis may be, when it comes to Prompto there’s not a manipulative bone in his body. It’s kind of endearing, in a way.

Prompto takes a deep breath, counts to five, waits for the feeling to pass.

Nope, still endearing. “…Fine, but if I get swallowed up by some gigantic squid, that’s on you, bro.”

At this, Noctis’ face lights up with a genuine smile. And hell, it really is all worth it for these moments, because lately that look has become far too clouded with schoolwork and royal responsibilities; that’s the excuse Prompto gives himself, anyway, for the way his stomach flips a little at the sight.

“Gladio’ll come looking for us if we’re not back in two hours,” Noctis shrugs, apparently confident that the services of his Shield extend to underwater wrestling with cephalopods. “Besides, I’ve done some swimming ‘round here before. There’s no sharp rocks or anything. Just a twenty-foot plunge.”

“Yeah, you’re _really_ selling it now,” Prompto mutters, but cannot hide his impending grin; because yeah, this is all sorts of stupid and ridiculous but that’s kind of what they _do_. Noctis is already pulling off his boots, shrugging off his overshirt and tugging at the t-shirt that catches at the back of his head, and Prompto swears that if he knocks himself off the cliff like that, it’s all part of natural selection.

But then Noctis is disentangled and throwing a look across his shoulder that says, _you better follow up after me or you’re the worst best friend ever_ , and Prompto scrunches up his nose in a way that says, _as if I’m not always the best best friend ever_ , and neither one of them is quite sure how this conversation takes place without actual words but it does.

That doesn’t make it any easier to actually, well, _jump off that cliff_ once Prompto’s turn comes.

The scream he lets out is not his proudest moment, but to be fair, it’s also a _really_ long fall; it throws him off long enough to lose all track of dimension once his body hits the water, the ocean enveloping his bare skin in a freezing kiss. It’s not long until there’s a warmth that combats the cold, though, and a pair of arms that wrap around his waist to pull him back to the surface. 

Of course, he counters it on instinct by clinging to Noctis’ shoulders, and they both go back down.

There’s saltwater in his windpipe by the time they come up for air, and Noctis actually has the gall to burst out in laughter. “This––“ Prompto chokes, one arm splashing at the water while the other still has a death-grip around Noctis’ neck, “Was the fucking–– worst idea–– ever!”

“Come on,” Noctis elbows him in the ribs, one hand still around Prompto’s waist like a buoy. “We’re like, two thirds of the way there. There’s a–– lagoon kind of thing right around the coast, and the fish there, they’re amaz––“

Prompto only sprays a wave of water in his face, breaking into a record-speed front crawl before Noctis has a chance at revenge.

Lucky for him, then, that Noctis’ estimate turns out to be accurate: around the cliff, there’s a ledge stretching out to a rock formation that indeed resembles a lagoon. It faces the sun directly, which is lucky for Prompto too: his skin breaks out in goosebumps as soon as he pulls out of the water, because it’s still very much September, and his shorts now cling to him almost as uncomfortably as the terry-cloth on his wrist.

“Oh, shit. Yeah,” is what Noctis says as soon as he pulls up after Prompto, watching him shiver. “I forgot you must get–– pretty cold, man. What with having, like, minus five percentage body fat and all.”

“Shut up,” Prompto manages in half-flush, half-laughter, and only barely avoids tripping over the rocks as he playfully shoves at Noctis. “Some of us don’t get to enjoy a magical internal heating system, so check your privilege, dude!”

“Hey, I get cold too!” Noctis quips, then frowns as though working something over in his head. “Wait, that’s–– I got it. C’mon, sit down, I saw this in one of Gladio’s wildlife instructions once.”

Prompto lifts a dubious brow at that, but does as he’s requested; there’s a flat of rocks right where Noctis is gesturing, near the edge of water. “…You’re not gonna gut me like a fish and use my intestines to heat up, right?”

“Pffft,” comes the eloquent response, but instead of seating himself next to Prompto, Noctis plops down on the ground behind him. And then, just like that moment in the water, there’s a warmth that cuts through the cold – Noctis’ legs wrapping around his waist, chest pressing against the entirety of Prompto’s back.

“You’ve heard of the famous Amicitia chokehold,” Noctis narrates, either oblivious or ignoring Prompto’s surprise, “Now, get ready for the Caelum bro-hold.”

Prompto positively loses his shit, at that.

“This is so––“ he wheezes through his laughter, trying to will down the hysteria before it turns into hiccups, “Fucking _dumb_ , you know?”

He feels Noctis shrug behind him, and there’s a flash of blue in the air before a fishing rod materializes in Noctis’ hand.

“I’m sure we can make it dumber,” he says, but there’s a smile in that voice; Prompto just buries his face in his hands, resigned to the fact that one day the kingdom of Lucis will be ruled by an absolute walnut.

But then, getting anyone to believe this would be hard, because other people never seem capable of piecing the prince and the dorky teenager together; only a handful of people are allowed behind the wall Noctis has put between himself and the rest of the world, and it’s what makes moments like this so special in the first place.

…Somehow, the thought makes Prompto feel warmer than all of Noctis’ magic combined.

“Okay, you gotta work with me here, now,” Noctis says then, clearly one hundred percent serious about trying to catch fish even from this position. “There’s a school just–– down that strip of shallow water, that I think I can reach.”

He leans his head on Prompto’s shoulder, and suddenly his breath tickles at the base of Prompto’s neck: “…So when I tell you to, you gotta stay absolutely still.”

And that’s where it all goes to shit, as they say.

Because there’s _nothing_ Prompto can use as an excuse this time, to excuse the bolt of electricity that shoots up his spine and across his skin. It hitches a single breath in his lungs, like a sudden hyper-awareness of the world around him; whatever wilful ignorance, whatever charm of stupidity has gotten him this far, it’s no longer enough to shield the inevitable, and it leaves him light-headed and freaked out all at once.

_You_

_do something to me_

“…Uh, Prom?”

He almost gives a start at the sound of Noctis’ voice, and finds an unreadable look on his face. It makes Prompto swallow down something even heavier, because if today is the day Noctis has gained the gift of mind-reading, Prompto might as well just drown himself in the ocean.

“I don’t mean to alarm you,” Noctis goes on, and the rod in his hand disappears in a flash. “…But, uh. You and I might be a little… fucked.”

It has the opposite effect of _not alarming_ Prompto, but he forces his tone even with an awkward laugh. “…Hah, h– how so, buddy?”

Noctis runs a single, sheepish hand through the back of his hair.

“…It just hit me that I only planned as far as how the two of us would get down here,” he confesses, eyeing at the coastline. “I didn’t… actually think about how we’d get back up.”

Prompto’s eyes widen.

“ _Motherf_ ––“

*

The verdict is in: Ignis’ rules ain’t shit.

That’s what Prompto blames everything on, anyway, in the weeks that follow: whatever madness derailed his brain on that joke of a fishing excursion, it must be all the _Don’t get killed_ rule’s fault. He’s read about that, in a magazine maybe, or the psych books he pretended to open more than once a month, but the point is–– sometimes you can develop temporary feelings for people, in extreme surroundings.

And the two of them, well, they certainly _died_ , almost, stuck on that piece of land for, well, two hours, almost, and Prompto swears he was close to starving. So that definitely counts, right? That’s all sorted then, right? Cool.

Cool cool cool cool cool.

Of course, that doesn’t quite account for the way Prompto’s stomach just–– keeps doing weird flips around Noctis at the weirdest of moments, like when Noctis sprays himself in the face with the water fountain, or naps against his thigh instead of his shoulder now, but that’s–– well beside the point. There are more important things to focus on, anyway; like making most of the _Don’t get jailed_ rule before graduation.

Because here’s the thing: when you’re best friends with the Crown Prince, you get–– access. To things. Things that you probably shouldn’t when you’re 17-going-on-18 years old and perpetually high on energy drinks and protein bars, but still.

Really, it’s the people granting them that access that should know better. When Prompto’s phone lights up with _Hey, meet me outside your house in 15 mins_ at quarter past nine on a Thursday evening, there’s absolutely nothing good that can come out of it. Prompto’s even willing to bet good money on that once he steps outside the apartment at nine thirty, and finds Noctis waiting alone.

“How in the hell?” Prompto laughs, halfway done pulling on a hoodie to match the late Autumn wind. “Where’s the squad? Aren’t we gonna get targeted by hitmen?”

Noctis just shrugs, hands shoved into the pockets of whatever knee-length shorts he’s dug up from his pile of clothes he may or may not have already worn twice this week. “We’re not going far, so I bribed Gladio by promising to put in some extra time this weekend. Specs thinks we’re _at_ training. It’s win-win.”

“…Dude, you hate extra training time.”

“It’s worth it, though – come on, there’s something I gotta show you.”

The _Don’t get killed_ part briefly flashes in Prompto’s head again once he realizes Noctis is the one driving –it’s not long since he acquired his license and it’s hard to practice in the city– but it makes more sense than taking the train, given that Prompto wasn’t entirely joking about the hitman. Or maybe Noctis _is_ the hitman, sent to murder Prompto with his shitty parallel parking; the thought flashes through Prompto’s head, too, by the time they make it to the underground garage of a nondescript office building downtown.

“Oh, I get it,” he muses, “We’re here for political espionage. Or maybe accounting. Wait, please don’t let it be accounting, I burnt my tenth grade maths books for a reason––“

Noctis snorts. “Look, Prom–– Dad and I, we came here the other day for some meeting with whatshisface and his crew, something about power supplies, I dunno ‘cos I kinda zoned out––“

He leans over towards the passenger’s side, squeezing Prompto by the shoulder. “But get this: they let me wander off at one point, gave me a keycard and everything, and I ended up on the roof. And it’s _the biggest freaking adventure zone_ you’ve ever seen.”

Prompto tries to quell his squeak, and fails. “ _Warp time_?!”

“Warp time,” Noctis confirms, and the grin on his face lights up his eyes.

And well, it’s not as if Noctis doesn’t have reason to smile: the keycard he never actually returned (for this very reason, probably) lets them on the company elevator, as much as it lets them up on the rooftop, and what awaits them is exactly as Noctis promised. The scene is stacked full with crates and ledges and remnants of a construction that never came to be. In other words, a right dump for regular people, and a wonderland for two guys armed with a warp-strike ability and a camera.

It’s enough to make Prompto forget about everything – everything other than _this_ , right here, because it’s all sorts of stupid and ridiculous and that’s kind of what they _do_.

“Ok, I’m gonna–– I’ll climb on top of that thing, and if you–– try making it from that one pipe to that stand, and I’ll time the shutter speed so I catch you in mid-air, okay?”

The city is alive with lights all around them, skyscrapers and towers framing each shot like an apocalyptic dream. Each time the darkness flashes with the blue sparks of Noctis’ magic, something inside Prompto’s chest feels like it’s going to burst: with the adrenaline, the excitement, even the hilarity of watching Noctis slam against a crate where his shift goes a good half a meter awry.

“Dude, that was _sick_ ,” he calls out, and the sound of Noctis’ embarrassed laughter echoes in the night.

Leaping off his own stand, he jogs over to where Noctis is rubbing his knee. A brief pang of guilt hits Prompto with the memory of Noctis’ childhood injuries, but the face that looks up at him is not awash with pain. Instead, the grin on Noctis’ face is –if possible– even bigger than the one in the parking lot once Prompto offers him a hand.

“Someone’s pretty chipper over a botched landing,” he jokes, and Noctis just shakes his head, letting Prompto pull him back to his feet.

“Man, I was just–– imagine how much Iggy would _flip_ ,” Noctis breathes, a little out of breath; it’s clear he shares the rush of conspiracy, and Prompto throws one hand over his shoulder while offering up the camera with the other.

“Just means I’m gonna have a hard time explaining these later, huh,” Prompto laughs, clicking through shot after shot on the display. He pauses on one particularly exemplar photo –the remnants of Noctis’ magic creates a complementary contrast with the billboard of a nearby skyscraper, _nice_ – and turns his head, only to catch Noctis staring at him instead.

He swallows, and does as terrible a job at it as Noctis did with his leap.

Because there’s that–– feeling again, and tonight is but one night amidst many others where Prompto has felt it creeping up like a blindsided attack; it rests right there in Noctis’ gaze, the sudden pause between them like a breath of night air.

A hundred alarms go off in Prompto’s head, all at once.

“Whoa, how about that–– time, buddy?” he says, pulling away quick with awkward laughter. It’s a terrible sell, but only because part of him still feels a little light-headed. “We’d probably better head back before–– uh, my parents get home.”

“…I thought you said they’re out of town for months,” Noctis asks, and the hesitation on his face makes Prompto feel nothing short of an asshole.

“Yeah–– well––“ he stalls, but as though the Astrals have decided on divine intervention, it’s here that Noctis’ phone comes to life – or _blares_ to life, rather, with the cacophony of a ringtone Ignis must have set.

“ _Shit_ ,” Noctis mutters, turning enough into profile that Prompto cannot gauge his expression. “Yeah, I’m–– look, it’s fine, we’re not–– Yeah, I’m with Prom, why–– Look, Iggy, everything’s okay, we––“ He sighs, then shakes his head at no-one in particular. “…Alright. I’ll be home in twenty.”

He finishes the call with an apologetic look at Prompto’s way. “…Guess that was too good of a plan not to fail, huh?”

“It’s cool,” Prompto says; he switches off the camera and flips on the hood of his shirt, trying not to look too relieved that the moment of awkward excuses has passed. “We got some good shots in. Plus, we can always do this again some other time, right?”

At this, Noctis’ mood seems to improve considerably. Brushing his dark bangs off his face, he gives a little nod; and before Prompto can brace himself for it, Noctis’ arm hooks around his neck in a negative frame to Prompto’s from before.

“…Good,” Noctis says, and his voice is a little breathless in an altogether effortless way, “‘Cause I had a lot of fun, tonight.”

_Shit_ , Prompto echoes inwardly, and the sirens in his head grow ever louder.

And it wouldn’t be such a problem, really, if it didn’t also make it rather difficult, really, to keep pretending like he doesn’t understand what the alarms are there for; because there are _three_ rules to being best friends with the Crown Prince, and only one Prompto doesn’t feel like stating aloud.

_Don’t get killed. Don’t get jailed. Don’t get too involved._

_Shit, shit, shit_ , he repeats in his head, but all that comes out of Prompto’s mouth is, “…Yeah, I did too.”

The night wails around them like something wails in Prompto’s mind, and somehow, the _Don’t get killed_ part is beginning to sound a lot more appealing than he originally thought.

*

But then, there comes a day when something happens; something even Prompto’s hyper-tuned mind cannot anticipate.

It happens on a day in early December, in Noctis’ apartment, watching half of Noctis hanging off the bed in an attempt to strangle himself with expensive sheets.

“But I don’t _want to_ go to that bullshit ball! Doesn’t that count for anything? I’m already eighteen!”

“Dude,” Prompto huffs, reaching out one leg to kick at the part of Noctis that hasn’t already slipped off like an elaborate human snake. “The Winter Reception is, like–– _everyone’s_ gonna be there. I’d kill to meet all those celebrities! I bet the booze there is insane.”

“Then you go,” Noctis retorts, giving Gladio’s core workouts a run for their money with the easy flip he does back to his knees. There’s still a wobble where he plummets into the mattress, the top of his head digging into Prompto’s side. “C’mon. We’ll–– dye your hair, or I’ve got some permanent marker, whatever–– and you’ll show up as me.”

“Impersonating a prince, huh,” Prompto considers this, tapping Noctis’ forehead with the comic book in his hand. “Nice. Think I could add that to my CV? Ya know, alongside my other stellar skills, like eating fries until I hurl.”

It earns him a burst of laughter, but also a hand that shoots out; Noctis’ fingers curl around Prompto’s wrist, holding it in place.

“Ugh. You know what, Prom? This–– blows. I wish I could sneak you in.”

And maybe it’s the genuine complaint in Noctis’ voice, or the spark of envy that Noctis gets to complain about something like this at all; or maybe it’s simply the touch of those fingers on Prompto’s pulse, that suddenly makes him breathe out with zero sense of self-preservation: “Then do.”

“Huh?” Noctis echoes, pushing back upright, but halfway through that vowel something interested flickers across his face. “…You mean, like the time we pretended you were Luna’s distant relative to get you into that one Spring Reception? ‘Cause I don’t actually think they bought it for one second, even if they couldn’t say no.”

“What the hell, man? I totally passed for someone from the house of Nox Fleuret,” Prompto laughs, then scrunches up his brow and sets an arm on his hip in a dramatic pose. “I’ll have you know, me and my dear twenty-times-removed cousin Ravus are practically identical. Well, if you looked at us ten shots drunk.”

It gets Noctis to laugh again, but also to shake his head. “Nah, I think we need a different jig. How do you feel about––“

“No drag,” Prompto cuts him off, and the way Noctis’ eyes narrow confirms the accuracy of Prompto’s guess. “I mean, it’s obvious that I could, and very likely would, assuming you asked me in the right circumstances. But I’m not risking my first attempt at heels in front of my favourite celebrities, bro.”

“Your priorities are so whacked,” Noctis groans, but there’s no defiance in it; instead, he places a hand on his chin for a moment, tilting his head.

“Alright, how about this: I’ll just say you’re part of my Crownsguard,” he says then, as though reading the daily specials off the Crow’s Nest menu. “I mean… it’s either that or the ventilation shaft, and I was gonna ask you anyway now that we’re both–– you know, of age.”

The wheeze that leaves Prompto is nothing short of a boiling teapot.

Really, he didn’t know that was a sound human organs could even make.

“D–– dude, is that like, even legal?” he stammers, because there’s _way_ too much to unpack in those words, at least in the time it takes for Noctis to glance back at his flushed face. He must have misheard, or misunderstood, because there’s no _way_ that a commoner like him would even be allowed into the Crownsguard, let alone that Noctis would have spent two seconds considering it.

“I mean–– You know I’d–– But I know you can’t–– I mean––“

“…Okay, you lost me, Prom,” Noctis says, but the calmness of his words belies the sudden unease in his eyes. “…Are you objecting to me telling anyone before it’s official, or…” Noctis comes to a pause, then, letting his gaze drop with the dejection of someone who has just realized they’ve _royally_ messed up.

“…Shit, I knew I should have brought it up with you sooner,” he mutters, “I… I must sound like a fucking idiot, huh?”

Prompto shakes his head, so hard he thinks his brain is going to fall out of his ears.

“ _No_ ––“ he chokes out, “Noct, I didn’t mean that, it’s just––“

(This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening _not happening not happening not_ ––)

“––What happened to the _rules_?”

Noctis’ shoulders tense at this, and Prompto wants to eat an entire shoe.

Because they’ve never–– discussed _that_ part of the Ignis’ age-old lecture before, considering there never seemed to be a reason to talk about what it meant to _get too involved_ ; which is a terrible excuse, really, since there’s little else Prompto has done lately but second-guess half the things that come out of his mouth, lest Noctis find out that particular rule may have sort of kind of maybe become… compromised.

Which is also why he most certainly does not expect Noctis’ following answer (a little defiant, a little frustrated, a whole lot silent) to be _this_ :

“…Look, Prom. I’ve always known that some day someone else will decide the person I have to marry. But that… doesn’t mean they get to choose with whom I want to spend my life.”

It sort of feels like being shot point blank in the face.

And yes, _yes_ , Prompto _knows_ he must be reading too much into it too, because _wow how about that bro, how about that buddy, seems like the real lesson of the story was the companions we made along the way_ ; but there’s also a part of him that’s kind of starting to bleed out from the seams, knowing their friendship is inherently dependant on the distance he puts between them, and none of this will _work_.

“Noct, I…”

(Not going to work out at all, even if Noctis is most definitely still the best thing that has happened to him in like, ever – but that’s precisely why you can’t dedicate your life to just one person, if you can’t tell whether you’re doing it for the right reason.)

“…I don’t know, I… I’d have to think about it first,” Prompto finishes, something raw in his throat; his whole head feels like it’s suddenly made of lead, and he avoids meeting Noctis’ eye.

Noctis says nothing at that, for a while.

“Yeah,” he finally breathes out, and with a quick shake of his head, repeats: “…Yeah. You’re… you’re right. Of course you need some time to think about this, it’s… not a decision you should make lightly.”

He lifts his chin, and Prompto catches Noctis’ expression; it’s apologetic and disappointed and reassuring all at once, and kind of… tears at Prompto’s heart, enough to risk a crack in his meticulously crafted facade.

So he takes a deep breath. Places one hand on either side of Noctis’ shoulders, and wills up all the cheerfulness he’s ever practiced for moments like this: for when the world absolutely _cannot_ witness his weaknesses, or see through the things he’s really dying to say.

“… Hey, let’s go out and do something stupid tonight, okay?” he smiles, accentuating the words with a light squeeze. “Hell, let’s have our own Winter Reception. We’ll dress like Iggy and drink like, five bottles of champagne and you can throw canapés at my head.”

He’s so focused on the delivery that Prompto nearly gives a start at the touch on his forearms; there’s something unusually gentle about Noctis’ gesture, and when Prompto’s eyes flick up, what meets him is the very gaze that stared at him that night at the rooftop – full of something unreadable, right before Prompto pulled away.

Is it really so unreadable, though?

“Prom,” Noctis says, and Prompto kind of forgets how to breathe.

_…Oh, for fuck’s sake._

Yeah, it’s one thing to wrestle back the inevitable if all you’re fighting with is the weight of your own self-denial; but it seems there’s a lot more Prompto’s been living in self-denial about these past months, and he’s just not _ready_ yet, to get crushed between the truth and the heartbreak that awaits down that particular road.

Whether Noctis understands this in quite so many words, something nonetheless shifts on his face; and just like that his hands pull down Prompto’s by the wrist, and the spell of the moment breaks.

“…Yeah, let’s go and do something stupid,” is what Noctis echoes, and Prompto also recognizes that smile. After all, it’s the same forced grin he’ll cling to with bleeding gums, because if the other option is losing Noctis’ friendship, then the other option simply does not exist.

…Yeah, they’re doing an absolutely _fantastic_ job at following these rules, alright.

*

 Lately, Prompto has had the peculiar feeling that he’s stuck in a terrible romantic comedy.

Not that this would be bad in and of itself, no. It’s just that more often than not, he has no clue whether he’s playing an extra or the lead.

He thinks of this again, when the Winter Reception comes and goes, and Noctis attends it alone. Not because the ventilation shaft jig isn’t a strong contender, but because Prompto catches a cold on the night the two of them go hopping from corner store to corner store and hoarding all the Chocomog chocolates in the city.

It’s quite fitting, really.

On the night of the gala it’s Prompto who sits at home huddled in a blanket, watching the event play out on TV like the supporting character he is; seeing Noctis trying to avoid the media, looking one hundred percent done when Iggy shoves him in front of a lone reporter. A couple of half-assed responses later Ignis appears to count his losses and steers the prince away, but not before Noctis makes one last eye contact with the camera and pulls a grimace that somehow, _somehow_ Prompto knows is one hundred percent meant for him.

It makes him burst out in laughter, seconds before he bursts out in a sneeze, and that’s all it takes to remind Prompto of reality: there Noctis is, ducking away from film stars and daughters of wealthy politicians, and here Prompto is, surrounded by a mountain of tissues and enough cartoon-shaped chocolate to give him diabetes.

But it’s alright.

That’s… what he’s kept telling himself, ever since the night of the Crownsguard proposal; there’s no point in denying the obvious, which must have been Ignis’ whole point all along. Noctis and him, they live in two different worlds, and the faster they come to terms with the less it might also hurt when those realities ultimately break apart.

Only problem is, Noctis doesn’t seem to give a shit.

Not about the hurting, or the coming to terms part, because approximately five minutes past midnight there’s a ring on Prompto’s door. And here they both finally are: one boy in an oversized knit and a pair of sweats, while the other stands there in a suit rumpled from minutes of restless shifting, and pokes him square in the forehead.

“Dude,” Noctis says, “You owe me a reception.”

And, well, it’s not like Prompto can _not_ smile at that, any more than he can not yank Noctis by the wrist before some government official shows up and drags Noctis away.

Because there are moments, just like the one that stretches from here to the rest of the early morning hours, when nothing about the rest of the world just… matters; when they’re back to being best friends who eat ice cream and make fun of the people on TV, shutting off some pretentious speech by switching over to video games until Prompto’s fingers hurt from hitting the boost button and his sides hurt from laughing.

…It’s kind of frightening to realize, once Noctis pulls on one of Prompto’s faded t-shirts at three thirty in the morning, that at this point there probably _isn’t_ a way to make things hurt less; and that even if there was, Prompto still wouldn’t end up making the trade.

“So, on a scale from one to finding one of Gladio’s magazines in your bathroom, how traumatizing was the gala?”

Settling in this cramped single is no easier than the other twenty-six and a half times they’ve slept in Prompto’s bed, but there’s also something very cosy about huddling close together: with an elbow wedged under his head as a pillow, Prompto can tell every shift and nudge of Noctis’ brow, usually hidden under his sideswept bangs.

Noctis’ resulting _huurghh_ is an impressive imitation of a daemon apparition, and he buries his face in the space between Prompto’s arm and an actual pillow. “Specs made me listen to someone talk about agriculture in Altissia. _Twice_. It was like–– _well young man, how do you feel about irrigation in a city where seventy percent of the acreage is water, har har har!_ ”

Prompto shouldn’t laugh at Noctis’ despair, but the mimicked voice makes it hard not to.

“C’mon, bro,” he says, stifling that urge in the impromptu way his fingers shift to play with the strands sticking out at the back of Noctis’ hair. He doesn’t stop to think why; it just happens, because it feels right.

“What about all those–– girls?” he adds jokingly, a wave of something unnameable passing through him as Noctis instinctively leans into the touch. “…I know you’re not exactly allowed to date around, but you could have at least told the prettiest ones that your best friend is a real catch.”

“Duh,” Noctis mutters, and his breath tickles the underside of Prompto’s bicep. “Why do you think I didn’t?”

Prompto lets a half-snort, half-laugh at his response, giving Noctis a playful shove. But there’s also something… different about the air tonight; like the weight of meaning that clings to their gestures and words no longer hangs heavy, but lingers above them like a gauze.

Perhaps, it is this temporary respite from months’ worth of second guessing that allows Prompto to nuzzle his forehead against Noctis’ hair, and mutter:

“…Noct, what the fuck are we even doing here?”

Noctis goes silent for a few seconds. Finally, there’s something that resembles a horizontal shrug, though all it does is nestle him even closer.

“…I really, really wish I knew.”

Prompto swallows, reaching for any remnants of chill to last him through his next question. “…So you could make it stop?”

This time, Noctis shuffles until he comes in full view, going so far as to brush his bangs from his face; the blue of his eyes flickers from purple to midnight and back again, but in the end he whispers,

“…No.”

And it’s here that Prompto realizes, that were he the lead of this romantic comedy, now would be the moment where the prince kisses the princess; would probably have done so long ago, since the princess wouldn’t have had a reason to run away. But that’s the kind of fairytale only people like Noctis get to have, and Prompto, well, all he can ever truly be is an extra in this play.

“I––“ he begins, but gets no further before he’s silenced by the touch of fingertips that press upon his lips; and he swears it’s the first time he’s ever seen Noctis actually _shake_ with nerves, in the brief pause it takes for Prompto to go quiet. 

“I don’t give a shit about the rules,” Noctis says, and it comes out sincere if also unrehearsed. His fingertips dip down to Prompto’s jaw, hovering there like the hesitation in his words. “But I care about–– you, and that’s–– why I’m not gonna ask you to do, anything you don’t wanna do.”

Around here, it’s all Prompto can do not to hysterically laugh.

“…Dude, it’s not _want to_ , it’s _can’t do_ , and you freaking _know_ ,” he manages, voice catching in his throat like he’s fourteen. He’s not used to this whole–– honesty thing, not when it comes to voicing his greatest insecurities, but if there was ever a person who made him want to try it anyway, well…

Noctis closes his eyes, knits his brows, exhales.

When he speaks again, he sounds every bit as out of it as Prompto feels: “…So, what _do_ we do?”

And maybe there’s some solace to be had, there – that at least they’re in on this together, as much as everything about this is a clusterfuck of irony. But then, that very combination of stupid and ridiculous is also what they _always_ do; so for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, Prompto sucks in a deep breath.

“…I guess the only thing we _can_ do, buddy,” he says, and there’s a hint of mirthless humour in his words, in the way his hand closes around Noctis’ own. “I’m… gonna keep being me, and you’re gonna keep being you.”

It’s enough of an answer for that night, or what remains of it once the clock hits four a.m. and all the secrets in the world hang naked for the blink of an eye; and then it’s gone, like any unspoken confession that neither one of them really needs in the end.

Life, in many ways, is a lot easier like that.

But life, in many ways, also becomes rather complicated after that.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time on the same channel: When both of you know that you know that you know.
> 
> (As usual, hmu on twitter or tumblr @icecreambat, since I'm trying to juggle writing the last couple of chapters of this with seminar work, I'm more than welcome to chatting about these losers to keep this writing momentum going, haha!)
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's read (and especially commented!) so far! It honestly means a lot, considering this is my stupid ass story that I nonetheless love to bits. By the way, we're definitely looking at more than 5 chapters here - not sure if that means 6 or 7 yet, though, so I won't change the number before I do.
> 
> (Also, yeah, the rating will change in the near future. I told you this was self-indulgent.)
> 
> Anyway, as usual, I hope you enjoy! Or don't, etc.
> 
> EDIT: SHIT SON i completely forgot!!! i was laughing and crying at [this art](http://g-script.tumblr.com/post/171020292101/so-im-loving-icecreambats-new-fic-rule-number) elyse sketched me during the week, pls have a look because that Prom is literally PERFECT

 

 

‘cause getting lost in the middle of the in-between  
is only half as frightening as it first may seem 

\- _Pink Lemonade_ , The Wombats

 

And then comes Spring.

It comes in the blur of those months between January and March, the ones you always look back on at the end of the year without really recalling how they passed; besides, it’s not like Noctis really has to care about his final grades, and Prompto has far better things on his mind.

Like, in no particular order:

\- How to master macro photography

\- How to break his record on the six-and-a-half mile morning run

\- How to stop falling asleep in history class

\- How to not attract Ignis’ wrath

The last one might be the most pressing of all, but this only depends on the perspective: because really, some strangely masochistic part of Prompto kind of enjoys how his adventures with Noctis slowly begin to slip from ‘balls to the wall stupid’ to ‘I _really_ seem to have a death wish’ territory – considering that in the last few months of high school the final rule of their friendship turns into a challenge, too.

“Uhh, you think three Sahagins might be a bit of an overkill, buddy? No? Right, just checking!”

He watches Noctis crack his shoulders, the flash of his Engine Blade materializing like the pixelated monsters at the other end of the hall. Prompto knows the animals aren’t technically real, and he’s practiced against a fair number of smaller creatures ever since Gladio allowed him access to the training grounds back at sixteen, but this is how he also knows how much a virtual blow can _hurt_.

“You’re the one who said not to go easy, Prom,” comes the response, a hint of taunting hanging off the end. “Besides, it’s not my fault you won’t fight with _actual_ weapons.”

It’s not a jab directed at Prompto’s choice in weaponry per se –after all, it’s been long since established by Ignis and Gladio that he’s not actually half bad at projectile combat, and does far more damage with machinery than anything with a blade–, but the _kind_ of weapons he has yet to wield: namely, the ones you gain access to through the power of kings.

“Stay pressed, bro,” Prompto just laughs, though, because to take off the sting of their short-lived discussion the subject of Noctis’ Crownsguard has become something of an inside joke. However, the truth is that while Prompto spends increasingly more time at the training grounds, he still hasn’t decided what to do about the request; still hasn’t had _the talk_ about his reasons, with the one person whom it actually concerns the most.

And hell, that is one discussion he does _not_ look forward to having with Ignis Scientia, ever.

But whether or not his doomsday looms in the near distance, today is not that day. Today, it seems, is the day when Prompto gets his ass handed to him by virtual Sahagins, because as good as he has gotten with breaking appendages lately, his timing is always a little off when it comes to linking with Noctis. There’s consistently half a second lag between one strike and the combo that should follow, and more often than not it’s that opening that leaves him vulnerable to a counter.

“ _Fuuuck_ ,” he groans, lying on all fours on the floor of the hall, listening to the sounds of Noctis finishing off what remains of the enemies. They’re soon joined by another sound, a soft _tap tap tap_ of feet that skip across the dojo with confidence and a giggle, and Prompto looks up to to find himself staring at Gladio’s sister.

“Hiya there, Iris,” he says with a grin and a wave, completely ignoring his feeble defeat. “Did ya come to assist Noct, or watch me get my ass kicked from here to Niflheim?”

“I heard Gladdy telling Iggy you’ve improved a lot, so I wanted to see for myself!” Iris smiles, squatting next to Prompto while stealing quick a quick glance at Noctis; even from across the hall Noctis seems to sense this, but the look he throws at them is interrupted by the sway of a Sahagin’s tail.

Ignoring this –hell, let Noctis deal with the enemies _he_ obviously summoned to compensate for his fragile masculinity– Prompto pushes up on his elbows, and draws an arch with his hand.

“As you can see, the news of my greatness have been greatly understated.”

At this, Iris just laughs again. Prompto likes her, a lot; they’ve got a similar energy and a great rapport that sometimes makes Gladio frown, although Prompto would bet his copy of Justice Monsters II Deluxe on Iris actually having a secret crush on the prince. Then again, maybe that’s just another thing they have in common.

“I don’t see a lot of people wielding guns,” she nods at him, then. “But you make it look–– really cool. Gladdy’s always ‘constitution this’ and ‘brute strength that’, but I’d like to be more like you as a fighter. Nimble and agile and good at support.”

It makes Prompto smile. He’s not sure why, but there’s a world of encouragement in Iris’ words that she’s probably not even aware of; in her eyes, there’s nothing that separates Prompto from the royal retainers she has grown up with all her life, and that… leaves something very warm spreading through Prompto’s bones.

It leaves him so chipper, in fact, that it adds a skip to his step later in the locker room. It doesn’t quite take away the sting of his bruises, but a potion sure does, so defeat or not, he’s feeling pretty good.

“Did you hear that back there, Noct? Iris said I looked cool!”

He’s halfway through towelling his hair, and lifts his head in time to see Noctis closing his locker. There’s something quick and untraceable on his face, but it’s gone before Prompto can catch it – though it would be impossible not to catch the way Noctis leans into his personal space, trapping Prompto between his hand and the other locker door.

“…Know what would you look even better?” he says, enunciating low and clear, “My _magic_.”

Prompto has to blink four times at that.

“…Noct, man, what the _hell_ ,” is what he manages in response, air filtering through his teeth in a wheeze; seems that their playful banter over this subject can make for some serious innuendo, except it’s not even innuendo, because it’s just an honest-to-god fact.

But then, there’s also the fact that Noctis is _honest-to-god flirting with him_ _in broad daylight_ , which is all kinds of hysterical to wrap his brain around; the weeks following their pseudo-confession have been full of–– moments, obviously, loaded with long glances and the occasional lingering touch, but rarely as deliberate as this.

Still, Prompto decides he likes the way it makes him feel. Like, a lot.

“…That’s _gotta_ be against recruitment protocol,” he retorts at last, trying to ignore the way his mind cannot seem to decide between nervous laughter or a cheeky comeback; terrible as they are at this, there’s still something about the drop of Noctis’ voice and the warmth of his arm that has the intended effect. “…Pretty sure you’re not supposed to make it sound like you’re actually–– coming onto me, dude.”

Meanwhile, Noctis sounds awfully chill for a guy who’s suddenly become very interested in the ventilation holes next to Prompto’s head. “…Says who?”

“Uh, the entire Lucian constitution, probably?” Prompto retorts, and wonders in passing if either one of them has any idea where this discussion is supposed to be headed. Noctis’ hand keeps gradually sliding towards his shoulder, but he also refuses to meet Prompto’s eye, and there’s a good chance someone might walk into the locker room at any moment and get the wrong idea.

As much as there _can_ be a wrong idea, Prompto notes duly, when Noctis finally glances back at him and mutters, “…The way _you_ talk to people always sounds like a come-on, anyway.”

Prompto has to blink five times, at that.

Then it clicks–– and fuck it all to hell and take the Astrals along, he can’t help breaking into an actual _grin_.

“Noctis Lucis Caelum,” he says slowly, too stunned to even laugh at the obvious implication in Noctis’ words – the meaning behind his sudden straightforwardness, taking place right after Iris’ visit. “Are you telling me you’re jealous over a _thirteen-year-old girl_?”

Noctis’ eyes widen, and he manages a total of one step backward before Prompto’s hand shoots out and grabs the strap of his gym bag, stretching across Noctis’ chest. “You _are_ , aren’t you?! Holy shit, dude!”

“––Fuck you too, man,” Noctis chokes out, as offended as a teenage boy possibly can upon realizing he’s just lost some kind of hormonal stand-off; but the curse is also trailed by laughter, and a smile that reaches his eyes.

Prompto can tell, since it’s the exact way being around Noctis always makes him feel.

And sure, Noctis does have a point: it’s not like Prompto doesn’t still fall in love with every other pretty face around, like, three times a day. But none of _those_ faces ever leave him wanting to scream and hide, while also feeling as though he could take on the whole world; it’s a very strange feeling, at that.

Prompto thinks he likes it, too.

“Uh, well, now that we’ve established––that, buddy,“ he decides to let Noctis out of his misery, because all these recent complications aside, Noctis _is_ also his best friend. “Whaddaya say, dinner? You’re buying, of course.”

He’s about to let his hand fall, but Noctis catches it before it drops; and for the moment it takes for Noctis to lean closer to his ear, their fingers entwine.

“I meant what I said, though,” Noctis breathes, and it’s hard to say whether the strain of his voice is on purpose or not. “About my magic, Prom. It’d… look good, on you.”

It’s a small miracle, here, that the entire back of Prompto’s neck doesn’t physically catch fire.

So, yes, there might be a thing or two more pressing on his agenda than their impending graduation. Especially now that Prompto has one more challenge to add to that list, one that tops even the one about staying under Ignis’ radar.

Consider, then, item number five:

\- How to keep hanging out with Noctis and _not_ go out of his fucking mind.

*

What they need is a distraction.

Also, possibly a public place. The more public, the better.

Prompto decides on this, not long after the night he stays over at Noctis’ apartment and wakes up somewhere between two and three a.m., sandwiched between the couch and Noctis’ body. Which is certainly not the first time it’s happened by far, but it _is_ the first time he’s suddenly acutely aware of the shirt riding up his stomach, and Noctis’ head pillowed against the exposed strip of skin.

And hell, that’s–– ten kinds of awesome, but also makes life rather difficult given that each slow exhale also sends a jolt of warmth up Prompto’s midriff; in the end he lays awake for an extra hour, reciting ISO ratings in his head. The next morning Noctis sits at breakfast with hair stuck out in erratic angles, chugs down half a litre of orange juice and last night’s cheese-soaked nachos, and given how Prompto _still_ feels like kissing him, it’s definitely time for an intervention.

Just so happens that their favourite arcade is getting a new shooter wheeled in a few days later, though. And what better excuse to dance around your gradually worsening physical attraction to your best friend than to blast some virtual people in the face, _am I right_?

“The only reason you ask me to play first person shooters is because you always win,” Noctis grumbles, shoulders hunched as he follows Prompto through the crowd on the day of the release.

There’s been a twenty-minute wait to play all morning, but this arcade is the one place on Eos where people slide back not for the Prince of Lucis, but the kid whose name has topped most leaderboards three years running; in mutual acknowledgment, Prompto throws a radiant smile at those letting him cut in line.

“Nah, it’s not like that,” he explains, nimbly pulling up to the platform. “This one’s co-op. I read all about it in a magazine – you’re supposed to cover for civilians while the other player takes out all the invading aliens.”

Noctis’ response is something unintelligible muttered into his shirt, but there was never a time when he actually turned down a video game; he begrudgingly accepts his fake firearm, and Prompto has to fight to keep his amusement under wraps.

“Okay, so in the first stage you gotta cover for me, Noct. There’s gonna be–– I think, a gauntlet episode and then an open space, where––“

“Just play the damn game, Prom,” Noctis mutters, and it’s probably a little alarming how adorable Prompto finds even that stupid pride.

Noctis’ mood improves eventually, through the gauntlet and the open space, all the way into an office building where a group of deformed monsters projectile vomits at them with acid. It’s far from the most challenging game Prompto’s played, to be honest; gauging each hitbox comes like something ingrained into his spine, which is unfortunate only because it means Prompto’s mind is far from preoccupied.

This is also why he notices, from the corner of his eye, the way Noctis’ brow scrunches in concentration; how Noctis bites on his lip when he misses a shot, and breathes out when he does not; the flex of his arms with his shirt pushed up to the elbows, at each flick of a reload; and it’s… hypnotic enough that Prompto only snaps out of it when Noctis gives a start.

“Shit, Prom, you shot one of the kids!”

Prompto’s gaze jerks back to the game, and it’s true: the screen blinks loud and red with a penalty score, because apparently Prompto’s gone and executed someone from a group of grade schoolers.

…Yeah, so they probably won’t be making the leaderboard that day. Whoops.

“Dude, what’s up with you,” Noctis laughs at him afterwards, as the two of them lounge down the street from the arcade. “Did real life training make you shittier at video games, or what?”

Prompto just scrunches up his nose at him, because he would rather die than let Noctis know the truth: _yeah, all that 3D’s throwing me off whack, buddy, because it makes it easier to touch you_ , he thinks morosely, and it’s ironic that Noctis chooses that moment to throw an arm around him.

“C’mon, don’t be like that,” he says, nudging on Prompto’s jaw in a light heckle. “It was an–– okay run. Your legacy’s still safe, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

It’s just as ironic that Prompto’s video game legacy is the last thing he’s worried about, especially after he notices the quick tilt of Noctis’ head; how he appears to scan the street for too many onlookers, before his arm casually slides from Prompto’s shoulder to his waist.

Prompto sort of wants to clock him in the face.

_Oh, not today, Astrals._

“You know what? We should go see a movie,” Prompto quips, spinning out of the half-embrace with about five times too much enthusiasm in his voice. “Yeah, man, there’s-– totally a film I’ve been dying to watch. So we should, like, go see it. Right now.”

Noctis lifts a brow. “Oh, yeah? Which one?”

“The…” Prompto scans his memory for any viable option he may have heard of lately. _Chronicles of a Hormonal Teenager? 20 Ways to Cross a Line With Your Best Friend?_ Oh, screw you too, brain.

“Shit, I don’t remember the name, just the poster,” he quickly adds, grabbing Noctis by the arm and pulling him along, “You know the one– with the dude, and the thing, and some other stuff, you know, _the stuff_.”

Whether Noctis rolls his eyes at him behind Prompto’s back, well, who cares. The important part is that they make it to the cinema, where –by the grace of gods, apparently– Prompto spots a film that fits the bill: some stupid action flick with enough forced romance to gross out even the most red-blooded heterosexual male. Noctis still decidedly gives him a _look_ (one that likely means something along the lines of, _I’m so not buying whatever shit is going on here_ ), but does not voice a word of protest.

Prompto sighs in relief once his back hits the seat. It’s comfy and immersive and for the next two-or-so-hours, should offer him diversion from his treacherous thoughts; or should do, anyway, if it weren’t for the way he cannot stop staring at the hand Noctis places on the armrest between them. It’s perfectly innocent, with zero intention of breaching over to Prompto’s side during the trailers – and maybe, that’s precisely why it’s Prompto who ultimately lets out a whine of frustration and grabs that hand.

In the flicker of the screen, something triumphant sets on Noctis’ face. “ _I_ _freaking knew it_!”

Prompto shushes him quiet, and leans over to aggressively whisper: “It’s not my damn fault we haven’t established any–– any _boundaries_! How am I supposed to know which parts of our–– y’know–– all of this is okay or not?!”

“Prom, you’ve been super touchy feely with me since you were _fifteen_ ––“

“––Shut up, I know that!! Which is exactly why it’s driving me nuts that now I can’t _stop_ thinking about––“

He swallows the rest of that sentence, suddenly all-too-aware of his incriminating words. Well, it’s not that he expects the Kingsglaive to burst out of the shadows and decapitate him for saying as much, but it’s still a whole different thing to talk about their bizarre as hell situation through allusion and innuendo. Actually admitting to this physical attraction, though? A whooole another ballpark, buddy.

It leaves Noctis without a retort, for once. But as the trailers finish rolling in the background and a soft darkness settles around them, Prompto can sense him shuffle in his seat. Their hands break apart, but only for the time it takes for Noctis to drape his arm around Prompto’s shoulder; a palm lands in the hollow of Prompto’s neck, tentative fingers on his skin.

“…Hey, I thought I already made it obvious,” is what Noctis murmurs, voice barely audible over the opening credits. “…Anything you want, it’s cool.”

“…You’re not exactly helping, dude,” Prompto grumbles, but finds himself leaning against Noctis’ shoulder anyway; finds his eyes falling shut when Noctis’ fingertips drift to the underside of his jaw, settling behind his ear to draw lazy circles around the nape of his neck.

“It’s because of you I have to watch this crap,” Noctis just shrugs, gaze fixed ahead on whatever nonsense is already taking place in the film. “So it’s only fair we both get to suffer.”

 _Get to_ suffer, indeed – because it seems to Prompto that everything about them lately is as much of a blessing as it is a curse.

When the lights come back on in the theatre, there’s a faint flush on Noctis’ face and Prompto couldn’t recite the plot of the movie to save his life. It might be a little pathetic to get this dazed just from this little proximity, but even the thought of something more physical would risk breaking Prompto’s brain. Besides, there’s a great chance that’s as far as they can ever take this; and beggars can’t be choosers, much as the memory haunts him on many nights to come.

On those nights, Prompto just lays there, waiting and out of breath;

but he’s still not sure what exactly he’s waiting for.

*

There’s about a seventy-five percent chance that he’s about to shoot himself in the foot.

Like… spectacularly so.

That’s what Prompto concludes with, when Gladio shows up on his doorstep the day after graduation, and throws a garment bag in Prompto’s face. “Get in, loser. You’re royally invited to the prince’s graduation luncheon, and your ride leaves in five.”

Prompto, well, he knows better than to argue with six feet and six inches of man-made mountain, but during the actual ride to the Citadel he leans towards Gladio in the backseat. “The hell’s going on? I thought that was official personnel only?”

Gladio shoots him a mild side-eye, but smiles.

“Yeah, but you guys didn’t get to have–– y’know, a regular graduation party, so seems like the King made an exception for Noct’s best friend.” Gladio folds his arms across his chest, and his smile curves into something rather… wry. “Besides, based on the hours you’ve been clocking in at the dojo lately, seems like that’s not all you’re planning to be.”

Local man chokes on his own cough, news at eleven.

“… _What the shit?_ ” Prompto sputters, positive that the flush on his face could be seen all the way from Tenebrae.

“Huh? I meant the Crownsguard, of course. What did _you_ think?” Gladio responds, tilting his head innocently; _too_ innocently, Prompto realizes, for the double-meaning to have been accidental.

Which only confirms his suspicion that the darkened windows of this car are in place only to stop others from seeing Prompto wheeled straight out to a guillotine, or an electric chair, or whatever gruesome capital punishment they use nowadays for inappropriate liaisons with the prince; Prompto’s up to his third line of defence on trial, when the car comes to a halt and Gladio nudges at his knee.

“Hey, time to go get ready. Iggy’ll show you around, where to get dressed and everything.”

That doesn’t exactly make Prompto feel any more confident, but there’s a pause where Gladio contemplates something, then places a reassuring hand on Prompto’s shoulder.

“Come on, little guy,” he says, and sounds genuinely good-natured. “It’ll be okay. The first events are always the worst, but you should get used to this stuff sooner or later – it’s not like you’re gonna become any less permanent of a fixture in Noct’s life, anyway.”

It might serve to make Prompto feel even more nervous, but has the opposite effect; at the very least, if Gladio sounds so optimistic about Prompto’s odds at survival, that’s gotta mean he’ll live to see another day. Yet there’s also a wave of warmth that passes him at the fondness in Gladio’s voice, like somehow… the man views him not as disservice, but an actual improvement to Noctis’ life.

Naturally, Prompto takes back the thought when they pass clearance, and the person who stands waiting is Ignis. There’s a wince of Prompto’s conscience, remembering the condition he and Noctis left his kitchen the weekend before – that burnt pizza must have taken forever to scrape off the bottom of the oven.

“Follow me,” Ignis simply says though, and if he holds any kind of grudge, it doesn’t show on his face. Prompto trails after him through the corridors, until they stop in front of a certain door; Ignis knocks on it, but also enters before there’s so much as a response.

“H-hey, what’s the big idea, Specs?!” Noctis protests, tripping over the shoe he was in the process of lacing. “I could have been naked, here!”

Ignis considers this with an air of chilly disregard, and proceeds to pick up some half-empty soda cans. “How _unfortunate_ that would have been,” he mutters before excusing himself from the room, and yeah, Prompto thinks, maybe he does hold a slight grudge.

“Alright, you gotta fill me in here, Noct,” Prompto switches to more important lines of logic as soon as Ignis is gone. “Gladio just–– kidnapped me, and I have no idea what’s going on anymore.”

Noctis only shrugs, though. He’s already wearing what Prompto soon discovers matches the contents of his own garment bag: a somewhat casual yet polished formal ensemble with a blazer instead of a suit jacket. Prompto’s not even going to ask how Ignis knows his size; that’s sort of a given in his line of work.

“Dad wanted to throw me a graduation reception,” Noctis explains, “I dunno, I never quite figured out which parts of the ‘I want you to have a regular high school experience’ clash with the whole ‘one of your classmates might be an undercover spy’, so as the result our classmates are out getting drunk and I get a boring ass luncheon with people I hardly even know.”

Prompto presses an empty sleeve of his blazer to his chest, and breathes out in mock-wonder. “So you invited _me_ along? Buddy, I’m so _touched_!”

“Technically, dad invited you,” Noctis mutters, and Prompto makes a conscious note of how he kind of turns away in profile once Prompto starts getting undressed. They’ve seen each other in various states of clothing over the years, even naked in locker rooms and that one time Noctis threw a plastic fish at Prompto for walking in on him in the bath, but… maybe it’s just a little different, now?

Prompto’s not sure if he likes _different_ , as much as there’s always something inevitable in _change_ , but he tries to will that flare of discomfort down.

On the other hand, Noctis’ unusual modesty also means that when Prompto finishes pulling on his jacket, he gets to witness the honest reaction that dawns on Noctis’ face: the lift of his brows, a quick sideways glance, and the palm that lifts up in imitation of the world’s worst chinhand-emote to cover what is obviously a faint pink on his neck.

“Well,” Noctis says, clearing out his throat, “…You don’t look terrible.”

“ _You’re_ terrible, dude,” Prompto calls out, and it’s only Ignis’ knock on the door –rather deliberate, this time– that stops him from lunging out and wrestling Noctis into a headlock.

Not that the urge really leaves him for the rest of the afternoon.

Turns out the only way to make this luncheon halfway bearable is to transform it into a game of mutual trolling, considering Prompto has never sat around this many self-important people or weird etiquette rules before. Sure, he kind of hides behind Ignis the entire time the King graces them with his presence (“Prompto, please stop literally _clinging to my coattails_ ”), but other than that? Shit, anything to keep them from getting bored out of their minds.

And so, Noctis gives Prompto about ten and a half different backstories depending on the person they’re talking to, while Prompto shares totally-not-made-up-at-all recounts of Noctis’ academic success; Noctis almost convinces Prompto to touch some old man’s toupee for a traditional good luck gesture, and Prompto dares Noctis to eat his entire starter soup with a fork. Juvenile as the gags are, though, Noctis seems very cautious of accidentally using his vantage point of privilege to embarrass Prompto in front of others – a small but respectful gesture that Prompto definitely appreciates.

Of course, by the time Ignis catches them trying to rearrange the desserts in the shape of a Cactuar, it’s evident _someone_ is embarrassed. “You two–– out. The prince has quite fulfilled his quota of appearances for the day, so go and become someone else’s headache for a while.”

(Gladio, on the other hand, just swipes them two bottles off the champagne cabinet and shoots them a thumbs-up on their way out, which Prompto takes to mean it has nonetheless been one of the more interesting luncheons as of late.)

They eventually find their way to one of the higher floors, a room that looks like it’s usually employed for briefings: a single long table set in front of a window that stretches along the entire wall, and when Prompto reaches towards it, he thinks he can see all of Insomnia. Whether or not they’re even allowed to be here, Noctis doesn’t seem to care; he’s already shrugged off his jacket and hopped up to sit cross-legged on the table.

“Well, that was about as mind-numbing as I expected,” he comments, and it’s almost impressive how casually he summons a lone dagger out of thin air, just to slice off the top of a champagne bottle. “And to think, some people our age _don’t_ get to throw down with old crones and three different sets of cutlery.”

“I know, right?” Prompto laughs, whirling around; his back leans against the glass, voice ringing out in a parody of some fair country maiden. “Now that you’ve introduced me to this lifestyle, I can’t _ever_ see myself going back!”

Noctis scrunches up his nose in a grimace, then shakes his head. “See? This is why–– I never asked you to come along before. These things are all for show; I don’t think anyone’s ever had fun at a reception for the history of mankind.”

“Well I don’t know about that,” Prompto retorts, nodding at the alcohol Gladio’s clearly meant as their reward for surviving through the afternoon without anyone landing in a soup bowl or two. “I guess if you got appropriately hammered, then anything could be considered a party.”

“Dude,” Noctis says, matter-of-factly, and reaches out his hand. “That’s exactly why we’re continuing it here.”

And maybe, Prompto should know better than to accept that hand; should know _far_ better than to drink on a mostly-empty stomach (would _you_ trust snails in garlic-herb butter?), but it’s not like they can get into much trouble stranded in a conference room at the Citadel – not even if the day slowly begins to grow old in the horizon, and the whole city is bathed in an orange glow right in front of their eyes.

It’s a terrible metaphor, but the vastness of that city still reminds Prompto of the expanse of their future.

Because mind-numbing or not, today’s luncheon has nonetheless served as concrete proof that a rather prominent chapter in their lives has come to a close; and even though it’s more than likely amplified by the alcohol in his circulation, the sting of _change_ hits Prompto again in a way that makes him less anxious and more… sad.

“…Sometimes,” he begins, unsure of what he wants to say. All at once, everything around him seems so close and far away. “…Sometimes I wish that none of this had to end.”

There’s a shuffle on his right, where Noctis turns. At first he opens his mouth, then decides against it; with a quick shake of his head, Noctis finally leans his head against Prompto’s shoulder with something resigned.

“…Look, I… I’m not gonna ask about the Crownsguard again, not even as a joke. But you know that–– it’s a way. For us to stay together, like this.”

Something tightens in Prompto’s chest, and he doesn’t mean for the words to come out so dry but maybe that’s the alcohol’s fault too – perhaps, some deeply-burrowed bitterness that Prompto’s usually more capable of keeping at bay:

“…Is it really, though?”

Noctis’ entire body tenses, and there’s no need to explain what both of them already know: that in less than two years Noctis will probably get married to some other pawn of political warfare, and even if he was lucky enough to marry someone he actually liked, well… that hardly means it would be acceptable to have such a close best friend in his life, let alone one he has ambiguously complicated feelings for.

“…Prom,” Noctis just says in response, and Prompto’s _really_ starting to hate how his name sounds rolling off Noctis’ tongue. Not because he hate-hates it, but because there have been far too many moments when it has done Rather Peculiar Things to his psyche, and right now he’s not sure his defences are strong enough to withstand the blow.

Fuck, this isn’t how–– any of this was supposed to go.

Prompto shakes his head, dragging a hand across his face and hair. It’s fine, who cares anyway, life’s a bitch and a half and there’s _nothing any one of us can do_. “Shit, sorry–– just ignore that, okay? I don’t even know what the hell I’m saying here, anymore, I––”

He shakes his head again, but it doesn’t help, because nothing _ever_ seems to help. “Maybe we should just… try going back to how things were, y’know…? Maybe that way, everything will––“

What cuts off the rest of those words is the abrupt twist of Noctis’ arm, catching him by surprise. His back hits the table with a thud, too stunned to even let out a yelp as he finds himself pinned between the mahogany and Noctis’ entire upper body.

And Noctis, well, he looks _upset_.

“Don’t you get it?!” he snaps, but the words are strangely… raw. “I _can’t_ go back to how things were, you idiot – I mean, I can’t just stop–– liking you, or wanting you, or thinking about kissing you all the fucking time––“

A flush creeps up his neck the second Noctis’ brain catches up with his mouth, a lot like Prompto’s own scene back at the cinema. Because it’s not like any of this is, strictly speaking, classified information to either one of them anymore, but it’s still a whole another thing to own up to the desperation in those words; and Prompto, he’s convinced someone can hear his heart thump all the way across the galaxy.

Incidentally, a whole another galaxy swirls in his head, and this time it’s not the alcohol.

All there is, is the light tremble of his fingers, and the way he traces a soft line down the curve of Noctis’ jaw; the shortness of his breath, where he brushes a thumb across Noctis’ lower lip; and finally, the heaviest swallow he’s ever choked down, as his hand settles to brace the side of Noctis’ face.

“…Just wait for me, a little longer,” Prompto breathes out, “Please, just… until I figure out what it is. The right thing to do.”

It drains all the adrenaline out of Noctis, his face softening with something a little pained; then he nods, and once more covers Prompto’s fingers with his own. Only this time, he also turns them over, and lands a tiny kiss against the palm of Prompto’s hand.

“Alright,” he says, and then repeats, “…Alright." 

Would it be clichéd and dumb to say it makes something flutter violently in Prompto’s chest? Yeah? Well, it sure as hell does anyway, and he’s still one quarter drunk off some ridiculously expensive champagne and hearing that _Noctis Lucis Caelum actually wants him_ , so maybe he’s allowed that much, at least.

Not that there’s not also a far heavier outcome of that evening, one they eventually spend lying side by side talking about their years of high school, and which of Noctis’ grades to fabricate for Luna; no, a certain realization weighs Prompto down even after Noctis trails off into a light sleep, head buried in the nook of Prompto’s neck and an arm around his waist.

There’s really no putting it off any longer, after all:

Prompto’s finally going to have to talk to Ignis.

*

The clock on the wall appears to be synced with Prompto’s breathing.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick… tock.

Ignis shifts weight from one elbow to another, an index finger pushing up the side of his glasses. “Prompto, I’m afraid this isn’t going to work. It has been five minutes, and I have yet to master the ability to read your mind.”

Prompto lets out an awkward laughter, one that quickly deteriorates into a cough.

“Y, yeah, of course,” he says sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. Is it just him or are these chairs much smaller than the last time he visited Ignis’ study? Wait, when was the last time he visited Ignis’ study? Has he _ever_ been inside Ignis’ study? Right now, Prompto honestly cannot tell.

He balls his fists on both sides, puffs out his cheeks, readies himself for the kill. “Uh, Iggy–– There’s something I gotta talk to you about.”

Ignis tilts his head. “Evidently. The real question is, will you be using actual words for communication?”

“Oh, come on,” Prompto snorts, unsure whether this is Ignis’ way of tormenting him or trying to lighten the mood. “I’m… I’m trying here, alright? It’s just… it’s kind of a hard topic to bring up, you know, out of the blue.”

Ignis sighs. He sets both of his palms against his desk, like the two of them are a judge and a contestant at some deranged talent show. Prompto briefly wonders if he should have prepared an impromptu number.

“You’re here to discuss the prospect of joining the Crownsguard,” Ignis begins his smooth monologue. “Which, as I have understood, was requested by Noct himself. However, you are concerned that your personal feelings for the prince might become a liability, and are here to request my opinion on whether or not you are fit for the duty.”

Prompto blinks.

“…Well, I guess it wasn’t so hard after all,” he offers clumsily, and Ignis removes his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose.

“Listen, Prompto,” he says with a strained exhale, like the words that are about to come out of his mouth are not his most preferred subject, “I will ask you one question, and one question only, so I hope that you may offer me an honest answer. Have you, or have you not, had physical relations with the prince?”

Local man comes back from the dead to choke on his cough for the second time running, national headline at eleven.

“ _What?!_ ”

Assessing the way Prompto is two seconds away from spontaneously combusting, Ignis gives him a wave of dismissal. “Well, I suppose that answers my question,” he murmurs, “Also, Gladio owes me a restaurant meal of my choice – which might be the greatest relief of this situation, considering I was not particularly looking forward to setting foot inside another Crow’s Nest.”

Prompto should earn an award for the effort he puts into trying not to sound like a dying Dualhorn. “So you… I mean… You guys… What?”

“Oh, Prompto,” Ignis sighs, leaning back in his chair. No, there’s definitely something amused in his tone now. “Of _course_ everyone knows. It’s not as though you haven’t been an open book since day one, and together the two of you have all the subtlety of an Iron Giant. This has never been the point.”

“But…” Prompto stammers, finding that the back of his chair offers little in the way of emotional support, “I thought… You know, the rules you gave us, back when we were sixteen? What was all that even _for_?”

He nearly gives a start at the way Ignis pushes his chair back, manoeuvres around the table, and comes to lean against. Prompto has the distinct feeling that he’s about to get fired from a job he didn’t even know he had.

“Those were the rules I gave you, back when you were sixteen,” Ignis echoes, and it takes a moment for Prompto to understand it is also his answer. “But you are eighteen now, and capable of making your own decisions – were this not so, you would not be sitting in front of me right now.”

He shakes his head lightly. “And yes, I am aware I have not actually answered the question you came here to ask: whether your relationship with Noct means you’re not qualified to also be his retainer. Which is an important question to ask oneself, considering it does not come without its own issues regarding any… responsibilities, that both of you may eventually have.”

Ignis sounds legitimately sympathetic, here; and it strikes Prompto with some delay that Ignis and Gladio must have grown with responsibilities of their own, too, which they would not necessarily wish on anyone not born into a life of servitude.

“But the bottom line is nonetheless this,” Ignis continues, and whether Prompto imagines it or not, a hint of a smile plays upon his lips. “Is there anything in this world –and I do mean anything at all– that you could imagine making you want to leave his side?”

Prompto closes his eyes.

And he thinks of the boy, who avoided the eyes of others while passing them in a corridor; the boy on the courtyard of their high school, standing cautious and alone. The boy whose smiles always came with a breath of hesitation, until one day they no longer didn’t; the boy who could have everything, yet never anything of his own.

That boy – that’s the man Prompto knows he would protect with his life.

“No,” he whispers, and Ignis pushes himself upright.

“Then, there’s your answer,” he nods, seemingly satisfied with the conviction in Prompto’s response. “I assure you, neither myself or Gladio will object to you joining the Crownsguard, if that is indeed your decision. Not that it is the only possible decision in your case, of course.”

Prompto shakes his head again.

“It’s… it’s not,” he agrees. “But it’s… also the one that feels _right_.”

Ignis reaches out a hand, squeezes Prompto’s shoulder. It’s reassuring in the same way that Gladio’s touch was, on his way to the luncheon – a kind of _Welcome to the club, kid_ , you could almost say.

“Well, it has been an enlightening discussion,” Ignis clears his throat, then. “And I look forward to relaying the news of your application to the King, though I promise that part of the process is a mere formality. The part that will consume most of your time and energy will come right after.”

“…Crownsguard training?” Prompto asks, dread entering his voice. This time Ignis most certainly smiles, and Prompto buries his face with a groan.

“That being said… I should probably also clarify,” Ignis comments, then, and Prompto glances up to find him with a thoughtful expression, “That I was not prying into your private matters simply because of some childish bet.”

“That’s––“ Prompto starts, a little flustered, but Ignis waves him quiet.

“The reason I asked about you and Noct is because––“ he explains, frowning, “Well, let’s just say most of the prince’s mood swings are directly related to changes in your friendship, and he has appeared rather… erratic, lately. If there’s any miscommunication left between the two of you, it might be beneficial to have it sorted before you go forward with your training.”

Unexpectedly, that frown then morphs into a wry smile. “…On that note, I do thank you for not overcompensating during these past years. I’d rather not even imagine the hellscape my life would have turned into, should you have started dating someone in high school to disguise your own self-denial.”

Yeah, joining the Crownsguard with this man sure is going to be _fun_.

But it’s nonetheless the choice Prompto’s going to make, as he may have already done in his heart, far before the subject was ever brought to life; which is why he does not go home afterwards, but instead finds himself pounding the speakerphone a few blocks away until there’s a familiar, dozy response.

“Mhuhwhat?”

Once more, Prompto balls his fists on his sides. Puffs out his cheeks, and prays to every Astral who might be listening to last his nerves through this one last hurdle.

“…It’s me, Noct. Can I come up?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time on the same channel: ....gonna crank that rating up, just to stay on the safe side. (Don't be fooled though - it's not _entirely_ what you might think.)
> 
> As usual, hmu @icecreambat on twitter or tumblr and PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD STOP ME FROM BUYING FFXV DOUJINSHI ONLINE just bc i missed out on clearing tables at fuyucomi fffff


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ay yo! Thank you again so much to anyone who's been reading, commenting, and leaving kudos - you have no idea how happy it makes me to know some of you guys are out there enjoying this weirdness.
> 
> Three things of notice:
> 
> 1\. The chapter count should be fixed on 7. So... yeah, a little longer than I planned, but there's a few things I want time to explore before jumping to the end. Let's hope that's the definitive number, ha.
> 
> 2\. Please note that I've cranked up the rating for this story from this chapter onwards; it might not warrant it entirely yet, but I'd rather err on the side of caution and hey, who am I kidding here - it only gets worse (better?) from here on out.
> 
> 3\. The word count for this chapter exploded because I am still 100% self-indulgent. And I love writing combat. And I love Tonberries. So there.
> 
> I hope you enjoy these dumbasses. I love them to death.

 

 

we both know that it’s time to go  
we both know that you’re going to stay

\- _I Don’t Know Why I Like You But I Do_ , The Wombats

  
  


Noctis, as usual, has been taking a nap.

He meets Prompto in the hallway, telltale grogginess clinging to his lanky frame even at five in the afternoon. His hair’s been getting longer lately, bangs a haphazard mess; on some days it’s quite an attractive look, on others it kinda makes him resemble a foul bachelor frog. Prompto can never quite seem to decide.

“You want anything?” Noctis asks with a yawn, gesturing at the kitchen. “There’s some leftovers from the lunch Iggy made.”

“Nah, I’m––“ Prompto begins, only to realize he doesn’t know what he is, or what he wants for that matter. What did he show up for, really? To talk about his discussion with Ignis? To tackle Noctis to the ground? Man, he probably should have thought this through.

So he just follows Noctis into the living room, where a beat ‘em up sits paused right before Noctis’ character is about to get blasted with a KO. Typical ragequit, Prompto notes wryly, before sitting down on the couch. “Listen, uh…” he begins, but Noctis gets there first.

“Hey, you actually came at a good time. Check out what Umbra showed up with this morning!”

Noctis chucks a familiar notebook in Prompto’s lap. Just touching the covers makes something shiver through Prompto, like the memory of Tiny’s fur, or the scent that still clings to the letter hidden in his drawer; he flips to the last written page, and cannot help but smile at Luna’s neat handwriting.

“…She sounds well, huh?” Prompto says, the couch giving in under Noctis’ weight as he takes a seat. “Hey, I told you she wouldn’t believe you getting top marks in geography, bro. You once told her you wanted to go fishing at the Vesperpool in _Duscae_.”

“How do you even remember that, man,” Noctis mutters, pulling the notebook back before Luna’s clairvoyance embarrasses him any further. Prompto just laughs at that, but the truth is that of course he remembers; any detail about Noctis’ and Luna’s friendship that he’s privy to, Prompto’s always soaked up like a sponge – it’s as close as he’s ever gotten to getting to know her, after all.

…Well, there’s that, but also the tiny nagging feeling at the back of his mind, one he cannot help but think about again on the brink of breaking out the news.

“…Hey, Noct.”

Noctis looks up, setting the notebook on the living room table. “Yeah?”

Prompto feels a lot like the two of them are playing a miniature karting game, and he’s about to launch off a track made of rainbows and no rails.

“Do you… do you believe in soulmates?”

It’s clearly not the conversation-opener Noctis was expecting.

His eyes go a little wide, before he settles on an elaborate, “…Uh, what?”

“It’s just…” Prompto shakes his head, unable to shake the odd feeling. “…You think it’s pointless to wait for someone, if they’re really just bonded to someone else in the end?”

It takes a moment before Noctis answers, and Prompto cannot blame him. They’ve never–– spoken about it, not quite from this angle; Prompto’s never held anything but utmost respect for Noctis’ friendship with Luna, but there have been–– moments, definitely, when the prophetic nature of their relationship has left him feeling rather… small.

“Prom––“ Noctis begins then, but Prompto cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

“I don’t mean it like–– _that_ ,” he bites down on his lip, “Whatever you and Luna have, that’s–– your thing. It’s cool, just like what you and Iggy, or you and Gladio share is completely none of my business, but… they’re all still people you were sorta born to _be_ with, and I’m…”

It’s stupid, stupid, so completely _ridiculous_ that the inferiority complex would hit him _now_ , after he’s already made peace with his decision and filled in the form. But maybe it’s that very implication smacking him square in the face, because no matter how many oaths he swears or Crownsguard threads he wears, none of it will change the fact that he was never _as destined to be in Noctis’ life_.

…Why did he ever think he could be more than this, anyway?

(More than the lonely kid in an empty house, clinging to a barcode that no flush of scraped skin would hide?)

“…You’re so fucking _stupid_ sometimes, Prom, that I don’t know if I should laugh or cry.”

His head yanks up, taken aback by the calmness in Noctis’ voice. Last time they had a conversation like this, there was frustration, even anger in that expression; but now there’s only a silent conviction, and the firmness of Noctis’ hands as he takes Prompto’s own in his.

“Did you ever stop to think that maybe,” Noctis pauses, searching for the words, “A foreordained destiny also means not getting to choose virtually anything about your damn life? That _maybe_ , the whole reason we’ve been best friends for over three years is because this entire thing–– our friendship, and all the dumb shit we do–– is the only thing that’s entirely _mine_?”

There’s a shake of his head, as if this whole subject is less than incomprehensible to Noctis.

“So yeah, _maybe_ , while I’m still not sucked dry by some shitty Crystal or chained by my duty,” he says, unable to help a sardonic smile, “…I’d rather focus less on the things I’m supposedly chosen for, and more on the ones I choose for myself.”

Prompto’s throat feels hoarse, and he doesn’t know why.

“…Damn, you really are the King’s son,” he cannot help but mutter, feeling a little like… floating. “Could’ve had me fooled there, at least between tenth and eleventh grade.”

And just like that, he feels the anxiety pulling off his shoulders in nothing short of a wave; as if sensing the shift of his mood, Noctis’s face breaks into a relieved grin. “Good one, huh? I should start writing this shit down.”

It makes Prompto crack up, too, and suddenly he’s not sure what he was ever so nervous about in the first place. So he tries to find his centre, the way he always does when running over ten miles – because he’s not going to run away from this anymore, even if the road ends up being somewhere he cannot follow.

“Hey, Noct… back then, you said ‘anything’, right?”

Again, Noctis lifts a confused brow. “Huh?”

“…At the cinema,” Prompto says, and grips Noctis’ hand a little tighter. “…You said you were cool with anything I wanted. So… now there’s something I want.”

That brow lifts, if possible, even higher this time; when Prompto turns to face him head on, it’s awfully tricky to hold Noctis’ gaze. It becomes even trickier once he pulls up his knees on the couch, and in a calm but determined move, climbs all the way into Noctis’ lap.

“Wh––“ comes Noctis’ wheeze like a royal blue-screen of death, but Prompto ignores his astonishment and just clamps a hand on both sides of his face. And hell, they’re probably going against roughly fifty different types of protocol here, but he’s just so tired of _caring_ ; tired of worrying, about every single damn thing about his life.

Really, it’s almost bizarre how fearless the words make him feel, once they finally leave Prompto’s mouth:

“I want–– to be bonded with you, too.”

There’s a three-second delay between this and Noctis’ brain, but the implication finally registers with awe. “…Wait, Prom–– did you finally–– you mean the Crownsguard?“ Noctis starts, but the smile that Prompto cannot stifle is enough of an answer, and Noctis lets out a deep breath.

“Okay. Okay. _Okay_ ,” he repeats, much like broken code; it’s clear his mind is working overtime, until at long last something triggers with action. His hands pull Prompto down, settling both of their hands on Noctis’ chest – it’s unusually warm even through the fabric of his shirt, as though a swirl of fire bursting at the seams.

“This,” Noctis says, voice a little heavy, “Is gonna feel–– weird, but not for long. Just keep holding onto my hand and don’t let go.”

After all these years of watching Noctis’ magic in motion, it should probably not strike Prompto as odd that receiving it feels a lot like Noctis himself: subtle, languid, and laced with an undeniable kick. The jolt hits him like a recoil, knocking Prompto’s head back where the power of kings surges into his veins, and he has to gasp for breath for a good ten seconds once it passes.

“…You should try it,” Noctis only murmurs, one hand slipping down to Prompto’s back to brace him. There’s something oddly… satisfied to his whisper, and it does little to dispel Prompto’s overwhelmed blur. “…Y’know, the magic. See if you can summon something.”

“How do I even––“ Prompto begins, but his mind is already locked on a certain handgun Noctis not-so-subtly added to his arsenal a couple of months ago; before he can so much as finish the sentence, there’s a familiar flash of blue and he almost drops the weapon as it materializes in his hand.

“Holy _shit_ , dude,” he breathes in marvel. With a flick of his wrist, the gun disappears; with another, it’s back again. “That’s _so fucking cool_!”

“I know, right?” Noctis clearly cannot help chiming in on his excitement, “That’s why I always–– Look, Prom, you can’t believe how much better fighting’s gonna be from now on, how much _fun_ we’re gonna have once you––“

The air flashes, and both of Prompto’s hands find Noctis’ cheeks again; because all Prompto can think of is the wave of elation, and the buzz of magic in his veins. And maybe it’s a lot like being drunk for the first time, or being high for the first time, but in that moment (split out of time) it’s all the same to him, as his mouth crushes against Noctis’ in a sparkling, haphazard kiss.

It’s only when he yanks his head back, about to burst into a litany of _thank you thank you this is the fucking coolest thing I’ve ever had_ that Prompto’s actions catch up with him – staring back at him in the dumbfounded expression on Noctis’ face.

“Uuuhh,” is all Prompto can think to offer, because after all the weeks and months of imagining this very moment in _excruciating_ detail, this–– most definitely isn’t how he pictured it to be. Shit, if he’s just gone and wasted his first and possibly last chance at kissing Noctis, it’s gonna make one _really_ bad anecdote in his memoir of _The Boy Who Once Upon a Time Knew The Prince (Before He Fucked It All Up By Being a Tool)_.

“Can we just–– like, rewind that, buddy,” he’s quick to add, trying to will down his impending freak-out. “’Cause I honestly meant to do a lot better than just land one on you out of the blue––“

“–– _Prom_.”

He goes silent at the fondness in Noctis’ voice, the expression that softens with something so affectionate it sends a shudder down Prompto’s spine.

“Anything’s–– perfect,” is all Noctis says, “I mean, it’s… you.”

His heart is a right roller coaster lately, and it seems there’s no downtime before each ride.

“…Okay. Okay. _Okay_ ,” Prompto repeats in an echo, and suddenly there’s just–– no time, to calm the way that same heart races, between the burst of adrenaline and Noctis’ hands settling on his neck; between the light tremble of Noctis’ fingertips, and the way Prompto dips his head––

_Because you always_

_do something to me_

––between the breath they both seem to take in a final act of courage, before their lips brush in a soft, tentative kiss.

It’s… precisely what one could expect, for two hopeless idiots who never went through the circuit of fooling around in their teens – since one of them wasn’t allowed to, and the other never found a good enough excuse. Which means it takes a bit of a fumble (the clash of teeth on teeth), a bit of a tumble (the awkward dance of aligned noses), and finally a sigh, the sound of relaxed shoulders, when their rhythm eventually falls in place.

In the middle of all this, Prompto feels Noctis’ fingers lace in his hair. There’s a shyness to the gesture, a lot like he expects Prompto to bolt again at any moment; which is hilarious, since it’s literally the last thing Prompto can humanly think of doing, stomach leaping at each tiny sound Noctis makes at the back of his throat. Which might be what spurs him on, not wanting to be mistaken for some fragile flower.

“––Dude,” he murmurs, pulling apart by a breath, “It’s–– fine, just–– try opening your mouth.”

Noctis’ hands give a twitch at the invitation, but the look he counters it with reveals he’s happy to take direction. “Y––yeah,” he swallows, and the sheer eagerness of that compliance does something funny to Prompto’s head.

Then again, it’s probably not that surprising. They’ve been running primarily on Noctis’ initiative for months now, so it’s only fair for Prompto to tug him along for a change. That’s how the two of them have always worked, after all; neither one entirely in charge, just stumbling through this maze of a friendship together. Still, it’s a role Prompto’s more than happy to commit to: because he _has_ imagined this scene over and over in his mind, and it’s about a million times better watching it play out in real life.

Namely, it’s about ten trillion times better how it feels in real life, when Noctis does as requested and tilts back his head. It’s a little–– clumsy, yeah, to run a hesitant tongue along his teeth before Prompto takes the plunge of courage and leans it into his mouth; he’s heard far too many horror stories over the years, of over-enthusiastic teenagers and kisses turning into more saliva than lips, but regardless of whether they possesses that kind of insight yet, the skim of his tongue on Noctis’ own draws out an actual gasp.

And well, Prompto might feel a twinge of triumph at that, if it wasn’t also drowned out by the sensation of his skin catching fire; Noctis’ grip tightens on instinct, pulling Prompto even closer which recklessly deepens the kiss. It’s alright, though, since Prompto’s more than impatient to repeat the gesture – to run with that encouragement and lick along Noctis’ tongue, because self-consciousness be damned, he’s waited _so fucking long for this,_ whether it turns out to be a hot ass mess or not.

Which is exactly why his stomach drops, the moment he senses Noctis hesitantly pulling away.

“––Listen, Prom––“

There’s something very dazed on that face, like the aftermath of a stun spell, or the time Noctis hit himself in the face with one of Gladio’s shields. It’s enough reassurance for Prompto, though, to not expect anything negative to follow once Noctis finally regains the ability of speech.

“I guess… y’know, because of how hung up on them you were before––“ he glances up at Prompto, “…We probably need–– new rules, for our friendship now.”

Prompto cannot help the way his face scrunches, just as he also cannot stifle a smile. “…Ya _think_?”

The look Noctis throws back is half-amused, half-unimpressed. It’s nothing short of hysterical how quickly they can snap back and forth between these moods, but Prompto’s not exactly complaining, what with how naturally Noctis’ hands also settle on Prompto’s hips.

“Yeah, well–– here’s what I propose,” Noctis muses, and it’s obvious he’s trying not to let his mind wander off with those hands. “…Rule number one, we–– don’t do anything that one of us doesn’t wanna do.”

Prompto nods at this in acknowledgment; that’s as much as they’d already agreed on, all that time ago.

“Rule number two,” Noctis goes on, trailing off a bit, “…I guess it’d be best if… we didn’t rush into anything, y’know?”

Prompto nods at this, too; the way Noctis’ eyes flick to the side is proof that it’s his rational side speaking, and as terrible at Prompto is following his own, well… there’s a reason it’s taken them this long to get here, and a reason why it’s smart to take things slow.

“That being said,” Noctis continues, cutting into Prompto’s thoughts, “I also propose, rule number three: if the two of us mutually agree on it, then fuck rule number two.”

Fighting back a bark of laughter, Prompto just nods again; and it hits him, here and now, that this is the first time in his life he’s actively set out to establish his _own_ rules – not just clinging to those of others, praying they might spare him from the eventual disappointment of realizing he wasn’t enough.

But it’s also not possible to ever _be_ enough, unless you have the courage to go after what you want.

“…Yeah,” he exhales, breaking into a grin. “Those sound like–– pretty accurate rules to me, alright.”

“So…” Noctis says, and the way he draws out the vowel is as telling as the way he bites down on his lip, eyes dropping back on Prompto’s mouth. Prompto just kind of punches him on the shoulder at that, a surge of carefree energy and something that feels a lot like _happiness_ suddenly waiting to burst through his skin.

“Dude, are we gonna make out again or what?”

And Noctis, well, he does a worse job at biting back his own laugh-induced snort, which is not exactly the image of the cool, composed Noctis Prompto had imagined kissing, either. But the one that he _does_ – the dork who still kind of misses his lower lip, then lands on the side of his mouth before yanking Prompto’s chin down with a _hold still you idiot, it’s like trying to hit a Daggerquill_ – well, _this_ Noctis tastes like Ignis’ exotic spices and the spirit of youth;

and it’s all sorts of stupid and ridiculous but then, that’s kind of what they always _do_.

*

It doesn’t last long, though.

In fact, it doesn’t even last another fifteen minutes before the blare of Noctis’ ringtone jolts them apart, and Prompto damn near somersaults backwards into the coffee table.

“I could have sworn I changed that,” is what Noctis grumbles to himself before he picks up, and sure enough, it’s Ignis on the other end of the line.

“Congratulations, Noct,” Prompto can hear Ignis state through the phone, “You’re officially two steps away from a complete Crownsguard.”

“That’s real fucking fantastic, Iggy,” is what Noctis spits back into the receiver, a true testament to how whacked out his mind must currently be to use such language with Ignis, “But I’m one step away from something more important right now, so––“

A sharp voice cuts him off in response. “Charming. Could you hand the phone over to Prompto, please?”

Prompto’s eyes go wide, waving his arms furiously in refusal as Noctis just shoves him the phone, not even bothering to look surprised at the leap of Ignis’ logic.

“Hello, Prompto?” at least Ignis doesn’t sound _quite_ as cross with him. “I have good news for you too. Seems as though as I was right, and the process of your application was a mere formality. I’ve forwarded you further instructions; the short version is, you are to report to training starting tomorrow morning at eight hundred hours.”

“…Uh, yeah, nice,” is what Prompto manages feebly before there’s a click down the line.

He turns to Noctis, and offers an apologetic smile. “…Sorry. I guess that means I should head home, huh? Y’know… to get ready for tomorrow and all.”

If a single expression could look like the physical manifestation of a whine, Noctis’ would be it. “Man, seriously…? But you just–– got here.”

Prompto lets out the whine with actual sound, running his hands through his hair in frustration. “Look, I _know_ , alright–– But I gotta go over everything before tomorrow, and––“ he pauses, with a sheepish look. “Well, you know. If I stay here–– I’m probably not gonna get a wink of sleep tonight.”

If a single expression could look like the physical manifestation of _oh really now?_ , Noctis’ would be it; Prompto simply punches him on the arm again.

“Shit, dude–– you _know_ what I mean! Last time I stayed over we ended up making pancakes at three a.m. They weren’t even good pancakes!”

Rubbing his arm, Noctis seems pensive. “Still, that doesn’t mean you’ve gotta… Hang on,” he suddenly yelps, and pushes off the couch. “Prom, I got it!”

“My man, roughly nine times out of ten when you say you’ve got it, you are, in fact, full of crap,” Prompto calls out after him, but it’s no use: Noctis is already shuffling through his speed-dial, and on the third ring someone picks up.

“Hey, I was wondering if I could cash in that favour you owe me. Huh? Yeah–– yeah… uh huh, well, I kinda need access to the training grounds. Tonight. Also, you know that place you always crash when you pull an all-nighter? That too. Uh huh… tch, yeah, _fine_ –– I’ll tell Specs too… Hey! When have I _ever_ done anything weird? …Screw you too, man… Yeah, okay. You’re the best, bye.”

Noctis slides his phone into the pocket of his shorts, shoots Prompto a smug grin. “I fixed your problem. All we need to do is go and get your stuff, then head over to the Citadel. If we spend the whole evening _at_ the training grounds, there’s no way you’ll be late in the morning, huh?”

Prompto lifts one dubious brow, but in all honesty – that’s not actually the worst idea in the world. Maybe not the best either, but he’s literally game for anything that will keep him from having to go home, just to replay this whole afternoon in his head like only the first twenty seconds of a porn video he’s allowed to view without subscription.

Besides, now that Prompto’s got access to the _power of motherfucking kings_ , he’d be lying if he said he’s not dying to try it out. It might sound a little nuts but–– fighting alongside Noctis, it’s probably the second best thing to kissing with Noctis, and if he can’t have the latter then he’s sure as hell interested in how different the former has become.

He’s certainly about to find out: true to what turns out to be Gladio’s word, after dinner they manage to sneak into the Citadel’s training area with relative ease. It’s only half-illegal now that Prompto’s technically already in the system, somewhere, maybe – it’s pretty wild to think that in a matter of hours, he’s gone from being _no-one_ to potentially higher in rank than most Lucian soldiers combined.

“Remember, kids: play fair,” is all Gladio advices them with, but before departing he also shoots Prompto a knowing grin and a salute. “Oh, and Prompto? A friendly tip on the first rule of being in the Crownsguard: whenever around the prince, don’t forget about _protection_.”

Prompto can feel his spirit astral-projecting straight into the afterlife, but Noctis double-flips Gladio off on both of their behalf.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Noctis proclaims later, tapping on the main hall’s console with a smidgeon too much strength to hide his fluster, “What do you feel like beating the shit out of, Prom?”

The roster of enemies swirls in a holographic apparition, a chronicle of beasts and daemons flickering in the air. Even after all these years, Prompto’s not sure he’s heard of half of them. “How ‘bout we work from the ground up, buddy? Give me some time to get used to, y’know, pulling weapons outta nowhere and all.”

“You could try the other type of magic too,” Noctis says with a shrug, aiming for nonchalance even if it’s clear he’s dying to share all of this with Prompto as soon as possible. “I mean, we’ve got a few flasks around. But–– only if you felt like it. I mean, whatever, it’s cool.”

It’s really, really hard to stifle the chance to run with that. But considering Prompto’s spent the past months stifling right about every urge when it comes to Noctis, this time he gives into the impulse and leans between Noctis and the console. “ _Whatever_ , huh?”

Noctis gives a little start at that, and the unexpected tease in Prompto’s tone; there’s no way to hit the right button without reaching past Prompto, and it’s obvious he knows this too.

“Sounds to me a lot less like _whatever_ ,” Prompto continues, folding his arms so they bump Noctis on the chest, “And a lot more like you’ve been looking forward to this for a while.”

“Dream on,” Noctis mutters in response, sliding a defiant arm past Prompto without breaking eye-contact; the result is that he ends up hitting the button at random, and the hologram stops.

Glancing over his shoulder, Prompto sees it’s set on _Tonberry_ , and literally jumps.

“Oh–– _shit_ ,” he blurts out, realizing the backfiring nature of his gamble at once. Meanwhile, Noctis just twists the side of his mouth in a non-verbal _whaddup, bro_ , as if they’re not about to eat dirt in the hands of a daemon who loves its knives even more than Ignis does.

This turns out to be mostly the case. After all, Prompto’s had–– what, a total of two and a half minutes to get used to actually summoning weapons, and half the time he still manages to clock himself in the face. If there’s a universe where Tonberries take their sweet time waddling towards their target, Prompto sure wishes he lived in it – this bastard charges in the second it materializes, and it’s a good thing it’s susceptible to firearms since distance is precisely what Prompto wishes to put between himself and the daemon.

It’s a little frustrating at first, how Noctis again takes up maybe seventy percent of the offense; he’s obviously cautious of the creature, mostly blocking to get a few hits in with parry. Gauging the right moment to attack is tricky, though, and he takes considerable amount of damage at the beginning just fumbling for that window. But the AI is also considerably less unpredictable than real life daemons, and after ten to fifteen minutes of aggressive blocking he starts to make progress with timing.

“Freaking _finally_ ,” Prompto hears Noctis huff over the cacophony of his blade, and maybe it’s the bond of magic or just Prompto’s own improved perception over the years, but it’s here that he begins to predict those same windows of opportunity a split moment before Noctis leaps in. It feels like the half a second gap that Prompto could never quite bridge before, but now… there’s a surge of warmth that keeps him alert of Noctis’ every movement, even at a range; which is why he suddenly finds himself less concerned with not getting stabbed, and more determined to finally land the end of that combo.

And he does. It happens almost like a half-accident at first, on a whim that Noctis clearly does not expect; Prompto actually has to physically shove him out of the way to dodge the knife that shoots out right after. Still, something registers in Noctis’ expression, and as soon as the daemon starts to grow sluggish, he yells over his shoulder: “We gotta–– Just wait for my cue, and strike when the back is exposed!”

Somewhere during the fight Noctis has made the sage decision to switch out his Engine Blade for daggers, which also help make more headway; after a particularly successful dodge-warp he only needs to lift his head and shoot a glance at Prompto for both of them to close in at the same time. Although exhaustion is already wearing down each muscle in Prompto’s body, the leap also feels like it comes on instinct: the blindstrike lands in a single, flawlessly executed hit, sending the daemon rolling several feet on the ground.

“ _Shit_ ,” Noctis swears, the moment the Tonberry wobbles back on its feet. The fight has been taking forever already; he must be regretting his former stubbornness, refusing to back down after Prompto’s tease. But then something lights up on his face, as he wipes a trail of sweat on the sleeve of his shirt: “Prom–– This idea might go completely balls up, but––“

“Dude, whatever!” Prompto cries back in response, because the daemon is back at it, and there’s only so many elixirs he can waste dancing around a virtual enemy. “I’ll try anything, damn, just get this little asshole off of me!”

He misses the twitch of Noctis’ mouth, which is probably good since Prompto might not appreciate his best friend bursting out in laughter at his demise. “I’ll distract it, meanwhile you pull back and–– you gotta hit it at the right time, with this––”

“With what?” Prompto echoes, but receives his answer in the sway of Noctis’ arm; it’s a good thing Prompto’s so quick with his reflexes, because the item he grabs in mid-air is no ordinary vial, but a magic flask. “ _Blizzard_?!”

“Time to learn on your feet, bro!” Noctis calls out after him, warp-shifting back to pull the daemon’s attention back on himself. “Just give me a heads-up before you hit with that shit, and try not to kill me, alright?!”

“Yeah, I’d hate to miss making _that_ first Crownsguard impression!” Prompto yells back, but nervous as the thought temporarily leaves him, there’s no actual hesitation in his heart. With every turn it gets easier to handle the summoned handgun, the recoil and weight of it in his hands; and when he’s put enough space between himself and Noctis’ close combat, he takes a deep breath, readies his aim.

Some six feet before the flask hits the ground, he draws the gun at the exact moment he yells out, “Noct–– _now_ ––!”

The bullet hits the flask a fraction of a second after the blue veil of Noctis’ warp hits the air, and the ground freezes over in shards of ice. It’s the perfect timing, even if Noctis’ own aim is a little off and he ends up warping inside the area of effect; the blowback is not very strong, but still streaks his hair and leaves his teeth chattering as he stumbles into Prompto, sending both of them rolling backwards across the floor.

“Did we–– did it–– is it over?” Prompto heaves the moment he pushes Noctis off himself; he frantically scans the room for the pesky little bastard, but all that’s left is the residue of pixels floating in the air.

The Tonberry is gone.

“Oh, thank _fuck_ ,” he groans, letting his head flop back onto the ground.

*

It takes around thirty seconds, before Noctis starts laughing.

It starts out small, like the heave of his lungs upon the burst of a green vial in his hand; but it’s not long until Noctis is flat out laughing in the empty training hall, lying on all fours somewhere within the reach of Prompto’s hand.

Which is why Prompto just shoves blindly in Noctis’ general direction, and ends up hitting his shoulder. “…What? What’s so funny, dude?”

Noctis draws his breath, and instead of getting up he just rolls over to his side. He bumps into Prompto, who leans over until they’re aligned face-to-face, as if they’re huddled in one of their beds instead of the outskirts of the training hall.

“…I could have just told you you were right,” Noctis explains, sneaking his last elixir over to Prompto without even having to ask. “‘Cause–– I mean, you were right. About me having looked forward to this.”

He glances to the side, before the confession. “…I just didn’t want to admit it, in case it made me sound like a loser.”

It would be rude to cuss out the person who just brought all your muscles back to life, so Prompto settles for a grimace. “…So, what, you figured it was somehow _easier_ to just kill a Tonberry?”

“I dunno, man,” Noctis mutters, and suddenly his face is a little closer, fingers fisting on the front of Prompto’s shirt. “…You do weird things to my head.”

 _That_ feeling is undeniably mutual, and the reason why Prompto’s newly restored muscles seem to react to the unspoken invitation; because the touch of elixir might take away the brunt of the battle, but never the adrenaline in its wake.

An arm snakes around Noctis’ waist at the very speed Noctis also leans forward and catches Prompto’s lips, the touch of it like an inhale. This time, there’s zero need to ask Noctis to relax, because the second Prompto’s own mouth parts their tongues already meet half-way – all heat and uncoordination, with enough vigour to leave no doubt that this whole battle has somehow turned into the weirdest form of foreplay known to man.

So yeah, check this: fighting alongside Noctis really _is_ the second best thing to kissing Noctis, and now Prompto gets to have _both_.

…It would just be real helpful if they didn’t always end up picking the worst possible situation to do any of this; there’s a nagging feeling at the back of Prompto’s mind that he’s _forgetting about something_ , something that he’s quite determined to push into the recesses of his cognition. This may or may not coincide with the moment his hands slip under Noctis’ shirt and Noctis just _accidentally_ drops further down, lips and teeth frantically seeking out the skin on Prompto’s neck.

It’s not humanly possible to bite back down the whimper, or the legitimate half-moan it turns into as soon as Noctis also discovers the skin behind Prompto’s ear. And fuck, that’s a real contender for top three most amazing things of his eighteen-and-a-half-year-old life, but even through the warmth that’s rapidly pooling south of anything safe, an unexpected eye-contact with the ceiling cuts through Prompto’s haze like Tonberry’s knife.

“–– _Shit_ –– Noct–– there’s _security surveillance_ in this place!!”

He just about misses kneeing Noctis in the groin with the sudden force he pushes them apart. Luckily, his implication is harder to miss, a similar wave of mortification washing over Noctis’ face.

“Shit fuck shit fuck shit,” Prompto repeats on automation, leaping to his feet and dragging Noctis along, not even wanting to think whether there’s an actual human person looking through those cameras right now – he’s in deep enough trouble once _someone_ does.

Yeah, this is not the first Crownsguard impression he was hoping to make, either.

They end up in the locker room, because it’s the first confined space Prompto can think of. Plus they could both probably use a shower after that battle; preferably cold, for more reasons than he can care to name.

“I should just go and volunteer being turned into Chocobo feed,” Prompto wails, softly banging his head against the nearest door of a locker. “‘Cause that’s about all I’ll be good for, once the King finds out that we––“

“Hey, stop that,” Noctis snaps; he grabs Prompto by the shoulders, forcing him to look Noctis in the eye. “Listen–– dad won’t give a shit. I mean, yeah, he’s probably not gonna advocate going around in public doing–– that,“ he swallows, unable to hide his flush, “But you’ve got nothing to worry about, okay?”

His gaze flicks to the side again, but this embarrassment is also a little different. “Besides, I… already told him. Y’know, about… us.”

“When in the hell––“ Prompto begins, because even with his math skills the chronology of today would never add up; however, Noctis cuts him off.

“––Look, I know I should have told you first,“ Noctis says, and the apology in his eyes is palpable enough to prove he also knows this wasn’t necessarily his call to make. “But… I was kinda flipping out, y’know…? For a while there, I honestly thought–– that you wouldn’t join my Crownsguard. And then, well… you’d have eventually left me behind.”

There’s an honest anxiety behind those words, and it makes Prompto want to kick himself in the shin; he’s spent all this time wallowing in self-pity, never stopping to consider whether Noctis could have been scared about the future, too. But it’s also what makes it so easy now, for Prompto’s response to come out in a sigh:

“…You’re so freaking _stupid_ sometimes, Noct, that I don’t know if I should laugh or cry.”

Noctis lifts his chin, and Prompto just kind of–– flicks him with his thumb and index finger, square in the forehead.

“Just remember, buddy,” he adds, “That no matter what happens with any of this–– _thing_ , y’know, even if it turns out to be some kind of elaborate psychosis that we just happened to share–– at the end of the day, well…”

He smiles, with absolutely zero hesitation. “…Noct, you and I are bros for life.”

It tugs on the side of Noctis’ mouth, too, in a way that Prompto _really_ shouldn’t pay so much attention to; it’s been struggle enough to reach this moment of placidity, and he’s not about to let it run off with him again. So, with all the grace of a professional mood-breaker, Prompto whirls Noctis around by the shoulders and says:

“ _As_ your bro, however, I also feel obligated to tell you that _dude_ , you stink. Hit the damn showers, okay?”

The sound of Noctis’ laughter is more relaxed than ages, bouncing off the walls of the locker room; there’s a brief argument (“You’re just as gross after that fight, man! Sure you don’t wanna join me and, uh, be environmental about water?” “Noct, I’m probably this close to getting banned from the Crownsguard already, so that’s a hard pass”) before Noctis relents and disappears into the shower. Meanwhile Prompto paces around trying not to actually _think_ about Noctis in the shower, or think about joining him in the shower, while repeating the mental mantra of _You gotta go through ten proxies to catch me, gay thoughts_.

Well, that’s only mostly true. Every so often a glimpse of memory hits him, like a surge of electricity out of the blue, but Prompto wills all of that down with enough self-control to make even Gladio proud. It’s only when they’re both sitting around afterwards, all fresh clothes and damp hair, that Prompto frowns, unsure what the next step is.

“So…” he begins, reluctant to actually voice it. “You… probably need to head home now, huh?”

“…Yeah, about that,” Noctis says, running a hand through his hair; he turns towards Prompto, and their knees bump. “––Look, I’m just gonna cut to the chase: starting from tomorrow, the training regime you’re about to hit is–– well, it’s not gonna be fun, and it’s not gonna leave you with a lot of spare time. The time you _do_ get, chances are you’re just gonna feel like hauling up in a hole to die.”

Prompto winces. “Wow, way to make a guy really look forward to this.”

Noctis nudges him with his elbow. “Come on, I’m not gonna lie to you. We might not get to see each other much for a few months, so I was wondering if…” he still seems a little hesitant about just coming out and _saying it_ , even if Prompto already expects the words. “…If I could stay here tonight.”

As fun as teasing Noctis with the obvious answer might be, Prompto’s face just breaks into a smile. “…Dude, I was starting to think you were never gonna ask.”

This is how they end up sharing a bed that’s, if at all possible, even narrower than Prompto’s own; the quarters appear only made for quick naps and whichever extreme grind Gladio gets into in his spare time, judging by the empty cup noodle containers. Prompto has some serious questions about how Gladio supposedly fits in that bunk though, since even with their far smaller figures it takes some creativity – Prompto has to drape half of his body over Noctis’ left side, which is very likely to make for a sore back in the morning.

But hell, if the road to Crownsguard is paved with suffering, what’s one night among one hundred and twenty more?

It’s this and other equally inconsequential things that they end up talking about, in those lazy hours after the soreness of muscles sets in: they compare the bruises, light but still visible beneath the healed skin, and Noctis almost kicks Prompto off the side of the bed for laughing at his biceps. They doze off, a little; it’s not actually that uncomfortable once they find the right angle, hook of a knee here and an ankle there, Prompto’s left hand over Noctis’ heart while his fingers spread over the beat.

In the aftermath of a battle there’s always the adrenaline, but now… there’s just that rhythm, until Noctis finally breaks the script. “…Alright, so two things. The first one is that in about… ten seconds, I’m just gonna go ahead and kiss you again.”

At Noctis’ unexpected straightforwardness and the calmness of his tone, Prompto’s heart literally skips.

“…Which leads me to the second thing,” Noctis continues, then pauses to lift a questioning brow. “Are we basing tonight on rule number two, or rule number three?”

It’s hard to hide the heat on his cheeks at the implication, but determined not to be underestimated, Prompto feigns aloof. “I dunno, man,” he responds, tilting his head with challenge. “Guess we’ll just have to see how you pull off that kiss.”

The look that sets on Noctis’ features is rather close to _So that’s how we’re playing this_ , but before he can object to this logic, Prompto checks an invisible watch and shrugs.

“…Whoa, seems like your ten seconds are up, Noct. My turn.”

It’s a pretty effective method of hiding his nerves, to jump head first into the deep end before he can second-guess himself; not that it takes him a lot of jumping in the first place, what with their bodies already some fifty percent entwined. But it’s still worth the surprise in Noctis’ eyes to steal his thunder – to catch the split second fluster on Noctis’ face, every time Prompto kisses him first.

And here’s the thing: this time, when they instinctively reach out for one another, there’s only shadows around to follow.

But that doesn’t mean there’s going to be a fade to black.

*

 It’s not as cautious as their first kiss, neither as frenzied as their adrenaline-fuelled one.

In fact, their whole position works in favour of reigning Prompto back a little, forced to lean up against Noctis instead of the direct access he had before; in a twist of irony it’s actually Noctis who ends up controlling the pace, quickly realizing how fun it is to make fun of Prompto by biting on his lower lip, then pulling away.

“Hate to tell you, Prom,” he says, sounding far too audacious for Prompto’s liking, “But if _your turn_ is anything to go by, we’re gonna have to skip all the way to rule number four: agreeing on how bad you are at this, and me going fishing.”

“Fuck you and your fish,” Prompto hisses, but it’s also tinted with laughter; it’s not that he minds the nudge of Noctis’ teeth on his lips, but it’s also getting kind of annoying not making actual contact. In the end he hooks his entire leg around Noctis’ waist, and finally manages to hoist up high enough to balance their levels.

“Al _right_ ––“ he starts, but the triumph is short-lived: in the next moment, Noctis rolls over his entire body, and Prompto lands on top of him with a yelp.

“…Sorry, your ten seconds are up too,” is all Noctis says coolly, although Prompto can tell it takes considerable effort to keep his face deadpan while running his hands up Prompto’s sides. “My turn.”

And then one of those hands lands on Prompto’s hip, while the other yanks him by the neck; it’s the complete opposite of his former taunt, pulling Prompto down into a deliberate, open-mouthed kiss. The abruptness is enough to hike all breath in Prompto’s lungs, and it comes out in a gasp against Noctis’ lips while his elbows hit both sides of Noctis’ face – from the kiss to suddenly having the entire length of their bodies pressed together, well, it’s a _lot_ for Prompto’s brain to process all at once.

On the other hand, Noctis _really_ is picking up the basics fast: instead of overwhelming them both, he lets go a moment later, trailing his thumb down to Prompto’s jaw. “…This okay?” Noctis confirms, equally breathless, and Prompto’s response is a nod swift enough to almost bash Noctis in the head.

“Y–yeah, all cool here, buddy,” Prompto confirms, trying very hard not to think of the pressure of Noctis’ hand on his hip, the pressure his own weight puts on their bodies, the pressure he could easily apply by shifting one leg between Noctis’ thighs. Is that the kind of night tonight’s going to be? It might be too early to tell.

But then Noctis kisses him again, tongue scraping the back of Prompto’s teeth before sliding down his tongue. It’s a lot less frantic than the way they messily licked into each other’s mouths in the training hall, but also twice as intoxicating with all the wet heat and none of the fumbling; the jolt of raw pleasure that shoots down to Prompto’s groin is enough to convince him that yep, that’s the kind of night tonight is definitely shaping out to be – so he’s pleased to find out that Noctis lets out an actual, guttural sound when Prompto’s thigh nudges his legs, taken aback by the surprise and friction both.

“––Dude, you cheat, that must have been like–– twenty seconds, easy,” Prompto quips in the gasp of breath during Noctis’ stun. Noctis’ eyes are quick to flick up, though, the words _As if THAT wasn’t cheating_ about to form on his lips, but he’s also clearly more focused on giving an upgraded performance of the one after their training fiasco; with the way his fingers just yank down the front of Prompto’s shirt, he clearly still remembers the sounds Prompto made at his teeth on his skin, particularly around the sensitive area down the back of his neck.

It’s not–– enough though, having to fight with the collar of Prompto’s t-shirt, so Noctis’ hands naturally shift to tug on the hem. It’s here that he pauses – in an inner conversation perhaps, much like the one Prompto’s waged in his own head since the realization that they’ve both grown unmistakably hard against one another for the past minute or two. “Uh–– So, about those rules––“

“Yeah, fuck rule number two,” Prompto offers in contribution, and takes to finishing what Noctis started by yanking the shirt off his back.

“No objections here,” is what Noctis counters, taking the moment to push up off the mattress; Prompto nearly stumbles at the sudden shift, but Noctis braces him before they both fall over, and Prompto ends up wrapping his legs around Noctis’ waist to balance them in an upright position. In a heartbeat Noctis is back on Prompto’s neck, though, and Prompto can’t help laughing at the sound of annoyance when the pull of Noctis’ own shirt interrupts him again.

“Crown Prince of Lucis: Impatient or just spoiled? Join us tonight for a panel discussion,” Prompto retorts, knowing he’s got about two and a half seconds to finish that joke before, predictably, Noctis’ mouth on his skin impedes with his speech. When Noctis’ snorts, the warmth of his breath mixed with the hotness of Noctis’ tongue is probably what it feels getting trapped inside the sphere of a Firaga; there’s also a seventy percent chance that there will be visible bite marks all the way down Prompto’s shoulder in the morning, but he’s just going to have to blame the virtual daemons for those, huh?

And shit, part of him wants nothing more than be bruised from head to toe if that means not having to break contact, but that contact is also his worst enemy: every time he tugs Noctis closer by the hair of his neck, the front of his sweats also decidedly rubs against Noctis’ stomach, and that’s decidedly not making it any easier to ignore the pooling heat. It’s familiar in ways he’s grown rather accustomed to whenever the window between midnight and dawn has granted enough excuse to imagine this exact scenario, with this exact person – and it hits Prompto’s head like a rush, to realize he can finally connect it with reality.

“Wh––whoa, okay, alright,” it’s Noctis’ turn to yelp at the hand that snakes between them, with Prompto’s fingers sliding down the flat of his stomach. They halt there, much like Noctis has paused between each new step in this weird exploration of skin and hormones, to make it absolutely certain both of them remain on the same page. Of course, that doesn’t mean Prompto can quite disguise the whine in his voice, much as he tries to play it off as a laugh:

“Uh–– so here’s a novel idea: you’re a guy, and I’m a guy, and I’ve got a pretty good idea on how to work around guy stuff, so if you’re–– cool with that, then maybe––“

He finishes with a swallow, because yeah, it’s still a little overwhelming to actually voice the rest of that aloud. Lucky for him, Noctis has long since become an expert at deciphering rambling trains of thought; the twitch of his body does a terrible job at disguising his initial response, but Noctis still braves an aloof voice that’s every ounce as feigned as Prompto’s own.

“…Sure you’re not gonna be too busy?” he suggests, making Prompto’s entire back arch at the tickle of thumbs pressing into his abdomen. “I thought you had a panel discussion to host.”

Prompto narrows his eyes. “I changed my mind. I decided I’m just gonna punch you in the dick.”

“Careful man, you’re about to handle a Lucian national treasure,” Noctis practically laughs into Prompto’s mouth, stifling the burn with a lopsided kiss. But it’s a laughter that doesn’t take long to morph into a sharp gasp, because in the end it’s not a long mental hurdle to commit to jacking another guy off – not if you’ve already been practising it in your head for months.

And Prompto, well, he is nothing if not a committed man: in some ways the only difference in touching a cock that’s not his own is the angle. Even then that’s only because the waistband of Noctis’ sweats forces him to push back to his knees, straddling Noctis in the process; meanwhile, Noctis clearly struggles to recover from the initial astonishment of _holy shit you’re touching my dick_ spelled in bold letters on his face, no trace of aloofness in the crimson of his cheeks.

It’s–– rather encouraging, really, and he steals a quick kiss on the side of Noctis’ neck to try and calm down both of their nerves.

“Hang on, I–– I got this,” Prompto insists, brows knit in concentration, because one, _holy shit I’m touching your dick_ and two, regardless of inexperience he absolutely _refuses_ to go down as the worst first sex act of Noctis’ life. It’s a little hard to concentrate on the science of it all though, what with those eyes hanging heavy on his every gesture; so the first, careful jerks are followed by a deep, yet also amused inhale of Noctis’ breath, as his right hand presses into the junction of Prompto’s thigh.

“Man, you didn’t have to take my joke literally,” Noctis says, playful smile tugging on the corner of his mouth. “I mean, if that’s–– the technique you’ve got your heart set on––“ he gasps a little, despite the attitude in his tone, “Then we’re gonna be here for a while.”

Speaking as someone with years’ worth of solo experience, Prompto takes mild offense to this.

“––Shut up, I bet five hundred gil you can’t make me come any faster,” is the challenge his heart seems set on, and before he can take back the impulsive words, something lights up in Noctis’ gaze.

There’s no pause of caution this time, not when his hand shifts from Prompto’s thigh to sliding down his hip. Prompto personally does pause, almost biting off his own tongue when Noctis’ palm wraps around his cock; as logical as this outcome has been for the past few minutes, it’s still nothing short of stupefying to–– _feel_ it, each sensitive nerve-end suddenly coming to life under Noctis’ touch like Prompto’s just discovered jerking off for the first time in his life.

One out of one users agree: it’s pretty fucking amazing.

“Yeah, alright, you’re on,” Noctis breathes, bringing his free hand to yank Prompto’s head down for another messy and impatient kiss.

To be perfectly honest, it really shouldn’t feel _as_ good as it does. After all, it’s–– almost entirely friction, even after Noctis licks the palm of his hand and Prompto discovers how easily excitable _that_ makes his dick; yet it’s also hard to think objectively about this, when one part of his brain struggles to keep up with Noctis’ tiny moans, and the other’s engaged with the pleasure that shoots through him with each tug of Noctis’ wrist. There’s a bet here to win, though, so he tries to distract himself with a mosaic of his childhood cartoon heroes – which backfires spectacularly once they all warp into R-rated versions of themselves, considering Noctis is actually not half bad at this.

“How the hell do you even––“ he hisses, voice strained at the back of his throat while his left hand clamps on Noctis’ shoulder, “Have the privacy to–– practice if–– Iggy’s _always_ showing up unannounced––”

“We have a–– system,” Noctis pants into Prompto’s collarbone which, by the way, _way_ hot in a number of meanings of the word, “As in–– I try not to forget my–– headphones on and–– Specs has got–– a sixth sense––“

“––For you cranking off?!”

“Dude, don’t be–– crass, he calls it my–– _gentleman’s time_ ––“

“ _OH MY GOD SHUT THE HELL UP_ ––“ Prompto laugh-screams into said shoulder, and yes, this is definitely the furthest thing from a porn-influenced fantasy, but that’s okay.

Because in spite of all the joshing, there are also those quiet moments of concentration, during which Prompto feels like galaxy-braining out of the known universe just for remembering this is _real_ . Every time they catch an erratic kiss it just turns into panting into each other’s mouths, leaving Noctis’ lips flushed and eyes half-lidded with _want_ ; and hell, Prompto’s about to build an entire alphabetised file of things he’d like to do to Noctis when he looks like _that_ , but his own breath already comes thinned by the waves of pleasure, and all he can really do is pray to the Astrals to earn another chance to try them out.

Of course, inexperienced as they are, it ultimately doesn’t take a whole lot to knock Prompto’s feeble nerves over the edge. Well, he’s probably been one wrong word away from coming since the second Noctis so much as grazed at his cock, but in the end his undoing turns out to be the moment he leans close enough for Noctis to carelessly mutter in his ear: “–– _Shit_ , Prom, you’ve–– no fucking idea how long I’ve wanted to do this––“

––Which, well, is the mental equivalent of the kickback of the first gun Prompto ever held in his hands, recoiling on him like a burst of ecstasy and yeah, no chance, his mind just whites out at that.

It’s more of a an elongated whine than a flat-out moan. In Prompto’s opinion, the sound deserves some kind of award for _Least Graceful Orgasm Noise Ever_ , but maybe it’s the combination of this –of the pressure between their bodies, and his nails digging into Noctis’ back– that lends it the power to ricochet off Noctis’ body; a familiar warmth spreads across Prompto’s fingers while an unexpectedly high-pitched moan escapes Noctis’ lips, and Prompto thinks, in passing, that he’d have paid the five hundred gil just for that alone.

Afterwards, it takes a moment of heaving into thin air for the world to regain focus.

It’s the part Prompto’s used to welcoming alone, staring at the ceiling of his room with the vague feeling that somewhere, somehow, the King knows what he’s done. Noctis’ shoulder, on the other hand, is a warm and comforting buffer between a blissed out fantasy and the mess they’ve made.

That being said, there’s a very distinct possibility that Gladio will single-handedly kill them if even a speck of evidence is left on the crime scene, so Prompto braces himself for the inevitable embarrassment of having to look Noctis in the eye.  “Uh… so… what’s your educated opinion on, err… Garulas?”

It comes out with awkward laughter as he begins to pull away, but doesn’t get very far.

Noctis’ left hand catches his jaw, tugging Prompto back into a kiss that feels one part breathless, two parts intense; when he lets go, the burn of embarrassment sticks to Noctis’ cheeks, but there’s not an ounce of regret on his face.

“We’re still cool, right?” Noctis asks, an unusual urgency in his words.

And in a sudden flash of clarity, it dawns on Prompto that Noctis must be just as self-conscious about whatever’s gone down tonight; even if they’ve dumped about five tons of banter over their teenage insecurities, turns out even being a prince doesn’t make you impervious to the fear of rejection.

Well, it’s official: the conclusion to draw from everything that’s happened today is that both of them can be so _goddamn stupid sometimes_ , the Astrals probably don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Prompto exhales, lets his shoulders drop. “C’mon, Noct,” he lets out a little laugh, bumping Noctis lightly with his forehead before wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “Yeah, we’re definitely––“

Nope, rewind that – the Astrals are most certainly laughing, because in his relief Prompto forgets _which_ arm he’s throwing around Noctis, and _which_ palm he’s just planted square on Noctis’ neck. “––NOT COOL, GOD!”

Noctis’ brow scrunches up, and he closes his eyes.

“…Please, _please_ tell me,” he states, voice unnervingly calm, “You _didn’t_ just wipe your entire right hand on my hair.”

“I… didn’t just wipe my entire hand on your hair?” Prompto hazards, trying to conjure his most charming smile in case it will deter whichever weapon Noctis will pull out of his arsenal in about ten seconds flat.

However instead of sending Prompto home tonight with one less body part (some of which are extremely vulnerable at this moment in time), Noctis just takes a long, deep breath.

“…You’re _so_ lucky,” he grumbles, “That you’re also so hot.”

Then he knocks Prompto off the side of the bed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time on this same channel: they're a disaster, but at least they're a disaster together.
> 
> Also, I'm on a solemn mission to use the line "fuck you and your fish" at least once in every fandom I write fic for, because it was spoken to me by a wise person once and I carry it with me everywhere I go.
> 
> (as usual, hmu @ icecreambat on twitter / tumblr, I am currently VERY emotionally compromised by the screenshots of Prom's new tattoos in the Windows edition and can't stop screaming about it. thanks for the contribution to my fic, Squeenix!)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you so much to anyone who continues to read this story, and specifically to those who have taken out the time to comment! For some reason writing multi-chaptered fic still makes me kinda... idk if nervous is the right word for it, but please know that your support is greatly appreciated.
> 
> That being said, we're past the halfway point which means some updates may not be on a weekly schedule, but I'll do my best. Also, don't be fooled – even if we're dipping into angst territory a bit more from here on out, the core purpose of this story hasn't changed.
> 
> Thank you to anyone who's reading.

 

 

maybe it’s the bullshit i’d miss  
it won’t get better than this

\- _Turn_ , The Wombats

 

 

In the end, Noctis’ prediction comes true.

Between Prompto’s bootcamp and Noctis’ princely shit kicking into high gear on the eve of his 19th birthday, the two of them suddenly go from seeing each other almost daily to–– well, once every few weeks. This isn’t really surprising; to pass those physical qualification tests, Prompto’s got some serious catching up to do.

Still, having to spend so much time away from Noctis blows. Like, _really_ blows, for more reasons than he can care to count.

Take for example, take _Reason number one_ : he misses hanging out with his best friend. A lot.

It’s easy to, since following their disastrous yet oddly enjoyable friendship level-up, things do in fact remain cool; okay, so the first time they meet afterwards there’s some initial confusion about the right protocol, y’know, for two people who kinda maybe sorta jerked each other off – are they meant to act like friends? Do some sort of secret handshake? It’s hard to tell.

But then Noctis just kind of kicks Prompto in the shin and Prompto elbows him in the ribs, and just like that they’re back to normal. Sure, it might not be _as_ normal to start throwing entire boss battles in Ganymede Tale III in exchange for making out, but in Prompto’s defense, Noctis looks _real_ cute throwing his controller at the TV (“Miss me with that scythe werewolf shit, god!”).

This brings us to _Reason number two_ : just because things stay cool, doesn’t mean they stay the same.

Which honestly? Is kind of awesome, given that texting with Noctis becomes a lot more hilarious once their jokes turn into an R-rated stand-up show. This may not always be the smartest move when you’re stuck at bootcamp and trying to have a mutually respectful relationship with your hand; Prompto’s imagination was certainly active enough even before Noctis started sneaking inappropriate content into family-friendly multiplayer games.

Speaking of which, there’s _Reason number three:_ Prompto’s getting disturbingly good at _Fishing Moogle IV: 2 Fast 2 Furious_ , and that shit has got to end.

It’s to his fortune, then, that he’s also not the only one to suffer from a slow deterioration of his sanity due to these new circumstances.

Prompto discovers this on one of the cooler Friday evenings of July, when a familiar car blocks his path on the driveway; _Please, gods, let it not be another luncheon_ , he thinks on instinct, but then the driver’s door opens and lets out one (1) Ignis Scientia, who looks like he hasn’t slept for a week.

“Not a word,” Ignis mutters, beckoning at the car, “Just get in.”

If Prompto had to describe Ignis’ driving in a word, it would be _hypnotic_. Or _floating on a marshmallow_ , if he had to describe it in four. Either way, he could easily live on that front seat forever, because it’s been a particularly rough week of constitution training and most parts of his body are aching for the sweet release of death.

This is why Prompto hardly even registers that it takes Ignis until the first red light to explain why he’s here.

“…Pardon me for the sudden intrusion,” Ignis muses, not taking his eyes off the road. “This is an entirely selfish endeavour, and for that I apologize as well. But there are moments in life that call for strategic warfare.”

There’s an underlying message in his words, one Prompto’s almost smart enough to understand; but it only really clicks after they arrive at their destination, take an elevator to the top, and the hiss of Ignis’ keycard unlocks the door.

“Good evening, Noct,” Ignis calls out into the hallway. “Just letting you know, I will return to pick up _our_ _good friend_ Prompto in approximately three hours. If your motivation to work has not considerably improved by that point, I’m afraid I will be forced to consider strapping you in a chair until you write that speech.”

From the sudden thump and a flurry of footsteps, it’s obvious Noctis hasn’t been briefed of this visit. He appears at the end of the hallway bundled up in a dark hoodie, looking nothing short of stunned while Ignis finishes his monologue.

“Please note that I am only looking forward to the aforementioned scenario with roughly… sixty percent of enthusiasm, so do try to get––“ Ignis pauses, then shakes his head quickly, “Well, whatever it is that you need to get, out of your system before then. Thank you, and good night.”

Then he turns on his heels, and makes a hasty retreat like he knows what’s about to happen.

As for Prompto, well, he only has enough time to register the door closing before an _actual goddamn dagger_ hits it next to his face.  In Noctis’ world, apparently, it’s very normal for a person to warp rather than walk down the hall, even if you were less than ten feet away.

“Dude!” Prompto blurts out as Noctis materializes before him, the short distance making him stagger like he’s drunk. “What did that door ever do to you!”

“Uh,” Noctis responds, a little thrown off by his own impatience; and just like that Prompto remembers _Reason Number Four_ why being apart from Noctis blows: because that boy is about as ridiculous as a garden gnome, and Prompto _still_ missed him like mad.

“Good answer,” he says, and couldn’t care less that Noctis’ hands land on his shoulders before the last syllable does – because it’s been two weeks and three days and fourteen hours since they were last alone together, so who the hell is Prompto to question his choices in home improvement?

As the humour of Astrals would once again have it, this is where this whole romcom nonsense once again goes to shit.

“ _Ow–– son of a frickfracking bitch_ ––!!“

In other words, while roughly fifty percent of Prompto is screaming with elation at actually being able to touch Noctis again, the other fifty is simply–– well, _screaming_ , because the pressure on his body feels like being run over by a truck.

Understandably, Noctis jumps back in half a second flat.

“Oh, shit, _sorry_ –– Are you–– you okay?!” he stammers, and yep, the loss of contact makes Prompto feel a lot like screaming again, but this time out of frustration.

“No, it just–– right now my muscles are like, imploding on themselves,” Prompto’s quick to explain, “But it’s fine, it’s cool, I’ll just hit myself with a Catoblepas tranquilizer and I’ll be good, so––“

“Don’t be an idiot,” Noctis huffs and shoves him on the forehead, because it’s the one part of Prompto he’s clearly not exercising. “I mean–– I know how killer some of those drills can get. You should… take it easy, Prom.”

With mild caution, his hand pulls at the sleeve of Prompto’s shirt.

“I…” Noctis begins, as though he’s about to say something, but falters at the last minute; with a quick shake of his head, he just grabs Prompto’s entire wrist to get his point across. “Come on. I know what we can do.”

That something, as it turns out, is another luxury Prompto realizes he’s sorely missed. It’s a tradition the two of them cultivated on the morning after Prompto’s 17th birthday, huddled in the corner of Noctis’ couch: watching nature documentaries on low volume, also known as the one thing that keeps a grown man from dying after eight rounds of shots.

So, reverse remedy: reheated takeaway, and a rather therapeutic documentary about a mother anak and her three calves feeding on leaves.

A goddamn genius, that’s what Noctis is.

He’s clearly not _as_ much of a genius once he goes for a mindful distance on the couch, but Prompto just yanks him into his own corner by the front pocket of Noctis’ hoodie (“Ugh, what is this? An alternate reality where your skin is charged with some weirdo magic that shocks me when we touch?”) – because yeah, there are worse things than a physical ache, such as the ache of knowing what you want is just a breath out of reach.

“So,” Prompto begins, once his head finds the optimal angle in the cushions, and Noctis finds an optimal angle for his chin on Prompto’s chest, “Sounds like you’re really crushing this prince gig, huh?”

Noctis rolls his eyes. How Ignis fails to appreciate that dedication, Prompto doesn’t know.

“It’s not my fault it’s a full time job of being _bored_ ,” Noctis mutters, pleading his case to an invisible jury. “Besides, they just told me we’ve got some stupid–– official trip lined up for the entire week of my birthday, so yeah, kinda hard to stay motivated.” 

That makes Prompto’s mood drop a little. “…Oh.”

“Yeah,” Noctis gives a cynical nod. “So in addition to having nothing here, when I come home,” he tries to do a sweeping motion with his hand, but only ends up hitting Prompto in the nose, “I now haven’t got even that to look forward to with you, anymore.“

In the background, the anak calves have found a watering hole to play in, and the whine in Noctis’ voice rings loud and clear over the low sound of the TV.

Despite his disappointment, Prompto cannot help but smile. “…What, does that mean you missed me?”

Noctis’ gaze shifts to the side, his fingers trailing Prompto’s shirt again. “…Yeah, as if.”

And maybe, there’ll come a time when that question and its subsequent answer are quite not as facetious; a time when Prompto’s body lies twice as broken, his mind grasping for the pieces of hope. But tonight he’s still young, and stupid, and the future lies somewhere in the unknown – making it easier than it should be, probably, to bridge that trust with a light tilt of Noctis’ chin.

“You feel like locking in that answer, buddy,” Prompto asks lightly, very aware of how Noctis’ eyes widen at the touch, “Or d’ya wanna try again?”

“Uh,” Noctis responds again, ever the epitome of eloquence, but his shoulders also tense in that familiar way that never fails to make Prompto’s stomach leap. And hell, you know what? That breath of anticipation before they lean in for a kiss is one trope that _never_ gets old.

At least, it would be hard to argue otherwise, especially now that Prompto knows exactly the right angle to dip his head in; knows that it only takes the lightest bite of Noctis’ lower lip to make him smile, and open his mouth. But the best part is that they both know there’s no hurry now, that it’s–– completely fine to spend a small eternity like this, just letting that kiss build up.

Which is exactly what makes it more _fun_.

“So, tonight on _Nature Documentaries and Chill_ ,” is what Prompto muses, head digging deeper into the cushions once Noctis pushes further to reach the side of his jaw. “ _Did you know that baby anaks aren’t tall enough to eat fruit, so their parents have to pick them out of trees?_ ”

“That’s–– fascinating, Prom,” comes the response against his skin; by now, Noctis seems resigned to the fact that whether it’s to quell his nerves or just to be cheeky, there’s no avoiding Prompto’s asinine humour. “Really, there’s never been–– anything I’m interested in more.”

“ _You know, stag anaks threaten other stags with their antlers to charm the ladies_ ,” Prompto continues his playful narration, fingers threading in Noctis’ hair while those lips find the side of his neck. “Otherwise they’re–– pretty laid-back guys _._ ”

A hand trails over the hem of Prompto’s shirt, like an afterthought before sliding underneath. “…You’re the biggest nerd in Lucis if you’ve got all that memorized.”

“ _Meanwhile, some anaks attack cars during mating season_ ,” Prompto adds undeterred, though it gets a little trickier to maintain his composure once that hand starts to wander. “I mean, ‘cause they’re frustrated, I guess.”

This brings Noctis to a halt.

“…Wait, _what?_ ” he says, with such a puzzled expression that it finally breaks Prompto’s poker face.

Through the laughter, Noctis intentionally digs his fingers into the sore muscles of Prompto’s side; through the screams, Prompto elbows Noctis in the chest. For a good minute and a half they struggle to lever one another off the couch, until somewhere between Noctis trying to smother Prompto with a cushion and Prompto lodging a knee into Noctis’ plexus, the two call for a cease-fire.

Breathing into Prompto’s shoulder, Noctis’ voice comes out wheezy, but it sounds a lot like a smile.

“…Man,” he murmurs, “I can’t believe I ran Specs up the wall for three whole hours of _this_.”

Prompto’s heart skips a beat at that, clichéd as it is.

Because this right here, is his _Reason Number Five_ to have missed Noctis _–_ the intimacy that lives in those words, unlike any of the jokes they’ve grown to hide their affection behind.

(Hell, it’s the goddamn butterflies and all that other romcom shit, when his phone lights up at two thirty in the morning. asking _Hey, are you still awake_ ; and Prompto knows it’s the most dangerous reason of all, because one of these days, well… they might actually have to give that feeling a name.)

He takes a deep breath, and tries to keep his words light.

“You mean, you were willing to get on Iggy’s bad side just for the biggest nerd in Lucis?” he says jokingly, letting his fingertips draw tiny patterns on Noctis’ back; Noctis lifts his head a bit, and something peculiar yet proud tugs the side of his mouth.

“…Yeah,” he replies, with unexpected honesty. “I guess I really was.”

*

 It might be worth mentioning here that they haven’t exactly talked about what _any_ of this is.

So far, there just hasn’t been… any real reason to; thanks to their limited time together over the Summer, whatever started on that night before Prompto’s training, well… it’s about as far as anything has gone. It’s–– definitely less than where Prompto’s mind has wandered, but he’s trying to exercise patience, and self-control, and all those other tiny things that fly out of the window every time he remembers what Noctis looks like when he comes.

…Let’s just say, it’s not the most helpful image to picture in his head when some poor soul at practice asks him, _Hey, so I heard you and the prince are pretty close._

It _is_ a helpful image to distract from the ache in his muscles, though, once Prompto abandons documenting anaks in favour of, well, documenting Noctis’ mouth. (Okay, he’d deserve to get clocked in the head for making that joke out loud.) In fact, it’s probably the world’s strongest anaesthetic once Noctis’ breath grows heavier against his lips, and a subtle yet deliberate shift in angles turns their brush of hips more into a grind.

“Y’know, uh,” the words tumble predictably between them, and yeah, that splash of colour still suits Noctis’ face just as much as Prompto remembers. “I know you’re pretty beat up and all, but–– we’ve only got three hours, and so––“

_Tell you what, my nervous system can go fuck itself_ , is what Prompto’s about to offer in response, because he has not vividly replayed the memory of Noctis’ hands every night just to get this far and _stop_. Before he ever gets that far, though, Noctis’ face hides in Prompto’s shoulder.

“Cool story bro: I might have–– a suggestion. About what we could–– I mean, what _I_ could–– do, since you’re kind of… physically challenged right now.”

Prompto cannot help but raise a dubious brow. “…Noct, if that’s code for wanting to sell my kidneys on the black market, the answer’s no.”

Noctis lifts his head, his expression a scrunch of disbelief. “…I’m not sure how your brain decided on _that_ , since it was pretty obviously code for me asking to, y’know, blow you.”

With the way Prompto’s eyes blow wide at this, it’s a tiny miracle they don’t fall right out of his head.

“Oh,” is all he manages, “That’s. Yeah. That makes way more sense.”

Somehow, Prompto’s astonishment must be what allows Noctis to bulldoze through his own embarrassment, using the momentum to push to his knees on the couch. “…I mean, unless the answer’s still no,” he says, “But you also, like, went real hard under me just now so I dunno, I’m gonna take that as… medium interest.”

Indeed, it’s that very interest that triumphs over the white noise in Prompto’s head, and he manages to pull off a shrug that’s… maybe forty percent believable in forced chill. “Yeah, well. Iggy _did_ hope my presence would get you more committed to your job.”

“…Prom, I doubt he was talking about a blowj––“

“REGARDLESS,” Prompto cuts Noctis off with a grab of his shoulder, “I’ve decided–– to be selfless, and for the–– good of this country, accept what you propose.”

At this, Noctis finally cracks up. “You’re so damn weird,” he rolls his eyes, yet a fondness follows his tone.

Because really, he’s always fed off on Prompto’s playfulness, the familiarity of it draining both of their nerves; it might take a bit of stumbling to get past these steps, but well… it’s also easier, with someone who makes you laugh all the way down that path.

Not that Prompto doesn’t tense a little anyway, when Noctis shrugs off his overheating hoodie and leans back to push up the shirt across Prompto’s stomach. There’s a pause, and the tickle of fingertips where they brush at his skin. “…Okay, not to sound like I’m reconsidering your idea on organ harvesting, but _shit_ –– that’s not what my abs looked like after they put me through a bootcamp.”

To avoid drawing attention to his inevitable flush, Prompto props up on his elbows. “That’s ‘cause some of us gotta work twice as hard to serve the Crown,” he gently jeers, “I mean, I still need to–– y’know, actually pass the qualification tests.”

“Well, uh, the dedication is much appreciated.”

“…Wait, are we talking about to the Crown or–– _oh_.”

Turns out Noctis gives less of a damn about Prompto’s commitment to the royal establishment, and more about its subsequent effects on his body; that’s the assumption, anyway, since his lips are quick to land a series of kisses along the exposed skin. The warmth of his tongue sends a deep shiver down Prompto’s spine, and yeah, maybe all those times he felt like dying after practice were worth it, to prepare him for a very different kind of death on Noctis’ couch.

He’s so transfixed on the scene before him that Prompto can’t even think of cracking another joke. That’s a testament to something, surely, even if Noctis is patient with his mission; the wet kisses eventually trail downwards, and Prompto’s trying _really_ hard to bite back the whine in his throat – to be completely honest, he no idea what’s gonna happen after Noctis’ hand catches the buckle of his jeans. Will his head spontaneously explode? Will he launch himself into orbit? They’re sure as hell about to find out!

But then Noctis suddenly halts, like the scratch of a record. “Okay, a disclaimer: I reserve the right to be _really_ bad at this. Also, you gotta promise me not to laugh.”

Prompto just blinks, looking at Noctis like he just grew five heads.

“…Dude,” he practically chokes out, “I’m like, ninety nine percent confident I wouldn’t care even if you–– I dunno, bit my dick or something, so it’s not like you’ve got much to worry about. Also–– please don’t bite me in the dick, I’m not actually into that. I think.”

“Yeah, I hear you’re more of a dick-punching kinda guy,” Noctis fights back his laughter again, and that–– has to be a good sign, yes, because he’s back to working Prompto out of his jeans and hey, it’s not like anything Prompto said is technically a lie.

After all, there’s no way this _won’t_ be a little awkward the first time around, but the joke’s also on the universe: they’re the proud and reigning champions of disaster sex, so when Noctis kind of slips a bit and drives the sharp side of Prompto’s zipper into his groin, it’s–– alright, it’s cool, because Noctis also catches the squeal with an apologetic kiss, if not also with a grumble of _Why the hell do you even wear such tight pants?!_

Disaster or not, Prompto’s breath thins noticeably as soon as air hits his skin. By that point there’s not any room left for embarrassment in his brain, because it’s occupied by the screech that sounds much like a dying whale; the splash of colour has gone straight up scarlet on Noctis’ cheeks, fingers idly closing around Prompto’s cock as though in a placeholder for his thoughts – the _when should I, how should I, where should I_ ’s all flicker across Noctis’ face like closed captions until he just sort of grunts, “Ah man, fuck it.”

The best part about first times –of most kind, anyway– is that everything just sorta… knocks you out with novelty. And Shiva on a sushi plate, there’s _a lot_ of novelty to having someone’s tongue run over your cock, especially if that someone is arguably the hottest person in your life; if their eyes just kinda–– flutter closed, right before they swallow down the head with nothing but wet heat and _holy fucking shit_ Prompto’s so turned on it feels like going out of his goddamn mind.

Yeah, sorry former memories – this one’s about to shoot right to the top of his list of _mental images capable of making him come in thirty seconds flat_.

Not that he currently plans on that, which is why Prompto just sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. “Fuuuck,” he roughly lets it back, “…You could, like, warn a bro.”

He regrets the words the second Noctis’ head bobs back up, leaving only his hand still firmly hastened around the shaft. “Wait, what did you think _being blown_ entails?” he asks, a little out of breath, “Me reciting poetry to your dick?”

“No, but it’s––“ Prompto lets out a gasp when Noctis ignores the rest of this conversation by dragging his lips as far along as he can without the risk of gag reflex. Man, if only Ignis could witness how motivated his prince can be if just given the right subject; wait, no, Prompto most certainly doesn’t need Ignis to witness this – not least of all because of how comically Prompto grabs the side of the couch, hands struggling to ground the unexpected pleasure that jolts through his body.

“It’s what?” Noctis asks right after, and that little _shit_ , he’s doing this on purpose – dancing around his inexperience by turning the whole thing into a drawn-out foreplay instead. Smart, if not also a little sadistic; Prompto might be tempted to punch him, if that didn’t also statistically lower his chances of getting to the end of this blowjob.

“It’s _different_ ,” is what Prompto hisses, reaching out one hand to yank lightly at Noctis’ hair. “To imagine it. And then to have it actually _happen_.”

“…Different bad, or different good?”

“Well if you stopped being such a fucking cocktease, I might actually know!”

“…That’s pretty rich, coming from Mr. _Let me narrate the life and times of random herbivores while making out with my boyfrie––“_ Noctis comes to an abrupt pause, brow furrowing. “Wait, best friend? Brofriend? What the hell?”

Prompto’s pretty sure he is, in fact, going out of his goddamn mind.

“Noct, you’re gonna give me a freaking heart attack,” he wheezes, something hysterical bubbling up in his chest, “We’re _not_ having that _What Are We_ conversation while you’re giving me head!”

“Okay, fine,” Noctis mutters, but there’s a smile hidden on his lips, right before they work back around Prompto and _goddamnit_ now there’s definitely tongue, yeah. It pulls out a moan that gets lost somewhere in the fog of Prompto’s senses, rapidly blurring the lines between Noctis’ hand and mouth; because his hand lends for friction what his mouth does for wetness and, well, even if Noctis still doesn’t entirely know what he’s doing, he’s clearly committed to figuring something out.

He doesn’t need to figure much, though, considering he’s already got Prompto so highly strung that even the absolute worst of jobs would blow him over. But it happens when Noctis’ fingers shift ever so much to press at the base of Prompto’s cock, and there’s a near miss with accidental choking where Prompto suddenly jerks his hips to grab at Noctis’ wrist.

“Hold there,” Prompto pleads frantically through a gasp, “And please–– just–– _don’t_ _stop_ ––“

It’s as far as he gets. Because it makes Noctis’ shoulders twitch as though in a shudder, and there’s a sound he makes at the back of his throat; Prompto can practically feel vibrate through his skin, and in some blind gesture his hand tangles in Noctis’ hair. “Oh _shit fuck shit_ Noct I’m–– close, I’m––“

He’s _trying_ to warn Noctis, is what he ideally wants, but the warmth explodes in his chest before the words get out. And he could _try to_ push Noctis away on time, but his body just refuses to listen; his eyes flick shut so hard there’s white spots in his vision, bursting with the ache of his muscles and orgasm and everything at once – coming to his senses a good while later, only to realize through the haze of his senses that Noctis never actually pulled away.

“…The hell?” Prompto blurts out, breath catching in his lungs, “You… _swallowed_?!”

Leaning back, Noctis hacks lightly. Pressing on his sternum, he looks a little… dazed.

“I, uh… wasn’t necessarily banking on it,” he admits, while Prompto wastes no time tugging up his underwear now that his body listens to his brain again. “…But I mean–– with the diet they put you on for training, I–– figured it was worth taking my chances.”

Between the lingering afterglow and this information, Prompto’s not sure which plane of existence he’s currently on.

Then he starts to laugh; a deep, heartfelt laughter that makes him yank Noctis down by the shoulders so they both crash against the cushions like a pair of absolute _dolts_. Really, that’s the purest word for the goofy smile on Noctis’ face (“Hey, you promised not to laugh at me!!”), and the warmth that sets in Prompto’s bones.

“What _is_ you review on that diet anyway,” he cannot help but ask, once they finish wrestling into a crab-like hold like another nature documentary of battling rubyshears, “You know, for–– science.”

Noctis scrunches up his nose. “C’mon man,” he says, “You haven’t heard of the Secret Rule of giving head? You don’t–– swallow and tell.”

Prompto literally snorts in his face. “That’s–– not a _thing_! You’re making that shit up!”

“And how would you know? How many people have _you_ blown?”

“Well I blew your freaking _da_ ––“

“––Remember Prom, defamation of the King is a punishable offense––“

“–– _aaamage count_ out of the water, buddy! ‘Cause boy oh boy is that practice paying off, courtesy of our benevolent ruler who should totally not strike me dead if he’s got this place bugged!”

“…Nice save, Prom. I give that a… six out of ten.”

“Shut up,” Prompto grumbles, rubbing his forehead against the side of Noctis’ arm. “…But seriously though. You can tell me if you thought it was–– gross. I mean sure, then I gotta change my name and face and probably move into the sewers of Lestallum, but––”

“…Just how much have they been beating you over the head at practice, man?”

When Prompto looks up, Noctis just kind of leans over, and brushes a lock of hair out of Prompto’s eyes.

“Look, I didn’t…” Noctis starts, then stalls a little; for some reason it comes out a little flustered, like Noctis is actually _shy_ rather than embarrassed about admitting this aloud.

“…Shit, honestly? It was… hot,” he breathes out, in a voice that’s as tender as it is aroused, “Like, a lot. That’s the whole reason I–– wanted to do this. I don’t really mind anything when it’s with you.”

This jolts various parts of Prompto’s body, but more than anything it hits his heart.

One of these days he might want to stop and ask himself why it’s the sound of Noctis’ affection that always overwhelms him the most; but then Noctis is back to his _and now here’s the evening news and weather_ mode, stretching out his arms in comical exaggeration, like this entire conversation is a completely normal thing to have with your _bro_.

“…I mean, when you really think about it,” Noctis shrugs, “I dunno what the big deal is anyway. Like… sucking dick isn’t gross. People getting killed just ‘cause some old geezer from the Empire is horny for the Crystal? Now _that’s_ gross.”

In spite of himself, the side of Prompto’s mouth twitches.

“That’s–– real profound, buddy,” he says before he can stop himself,“You should put _that_ in the speech Iggy wants you to write.”

Noctis’ eyes narrow, and Prompto’s not entirely sure how they go from this conversation to a furniture-related incident that almost sends him into the afterlife; but hey, at least he gets to doom Noctis to a perpetual hell of Lucian nature documentaries, once they roll off the couch and accidentally break Noctis’ remote.

An endless loop of anaks is a small price to pay for knowing the two of them are still _cool_ , though.

After all, the more they crack open these weird Pandora’s boxes, the greater the chance that one of these days they’ll run into something that gets countered with Rule Number One – something one of them might call a time-out on, or just not be comfortable with enough. As Prompto finishes wailing in agony and Noctis leans in with an apologetic yet pent-up kiss, though, it’s quite the evidence that today is not going to be that day.

It’s a _real_ shame, then, that there’s nothing else they can sacrifice to the Astrals to make these remaining hours last a little bit longer.

Unless… Wait.

Pause that thought, buddy, and rewind.

“––Hey, Noct,” Prompto cuts the kiss with a sudden, possibly _terrible_ idea. “…What do you think Iggy would be willing to trade in exchange for that speech?”

*

To absolutely no-one’s surprise, Ignis is one mean negotiator.

He still sends Prompto home that night, but is also willing to strike a deal: he’ll give them the entire Saturday in exchange for the first draft of Noctis’ speech, with the promise that Noctis will spend Sunday working on the second.

It’s not–– the ideal way to spend a Saturday together, but since the average amount of times Prompto now thinks about Noctis’ mouth per day has shot up to one hundred and sixty, he’ll take what he can get.

That’s how Prompto finds himself at the café near Noctis’ apartment at ten fifteen on Saturday morning. His internal clock wakes him up by six a.m., so Prompto has already managed to do the following: go for a run, take a shower, fix his hair, hate his hair, fix it again, lose one contact lens, decide on glasses, show up at the café, order breakfast, and make plans for Noctis’ speech.

Shit, they–– they’ve got this. The two of them have planned dozens of school presentations in the past, including a chemistry project that blew up and turned Prompto’s hair orange for a month. With that kind of track record, this should all be a breeze; look, in his notebook next to some hasty chocobos doodled in the margins, Prompto already has them off to a promising start:

_NOCT’S SUPER BALLER 19TH BIRTHDAY SPEECH 2000_

_\- presumably, don’t talk too much about eggs_

 “…What’s the 2000 for?” Noctis asks, reading over his shoulder, and Prompto almost trips over in his seat.

The sun trailing in through the windows unveils obvious traces of sleep still on Noctis’ face. He probably hasn’t moved a limb before 10 a.m., which is when he usually crawls out of bed like a cryptid from the Crestholm Channels; it’s a little unfair, all things considered, how good it makes him look today.

_Bzzt! Wrong answer!_ is what Prompto’s brain snaps, because today they also have a _job_ to do.

“It’s just, y’know, to add some flair,” Prompto explains, knocking back his wandering thoughts. It shouldn’t be too difficult to act casual, if just for one afternoon. Right? “Everything sounds cooler that way. Like… _Crow’s Nest 2000!_ _Cosmogony 2000! Gladio 2000!_ Wait, that would make a nice protein brand. Or maybe a bike.”

“…And _how_ many coffees have you had?” Noctis asks with mild suspicion, seating himself next to Prompto; on reflex, he reaches out to–– well, kiss him probably, but remembers their surroundings halfway through the gesture. It finishes with Noctis doing a strange sort of swoop at the last second, and his lips hit Prompto’s ear.

“Well, that was… not normal,” Prompto comments, ignoring Noctis discreetly sliding over his leftover plate of scrambled eggs like that was his true diversion tactic all along.

“Uh, so anyway,” Prompto goes on, “I figured Iggy just wants you to spout some crap about, I dunno, growing into your responsibilities and…” He pauses, noticing the way Noctis is staring at him with a lightly furrowed brow. “Huh? Something wrong, Noct?”

“No, it’s just…” Noctis states, as though the fact has just dawned on him with some delay, “It’s been a while since you wore your glasses.”

Prompto shrugs. “Yeah, I think I dropped a contact in the sink and was too busy to look for a spare, I’ll just do it late––“

“Nah,” Noctis cuts him off, now staring at the eggs he piles on his fork. “You could also–– leave them. It’s… pretty cute.”

Personally, Prompto’s always assumed his glasses made him look like a weatherman from the wild and funky bachelor days of Noctis’ dad, so yeah, the compliment makes something persistent flutter in his chest; meanwhile, Noctis just pushes the food around on the plate instead of actually eating it, so yeah, they’ve both got trouble concentrating today.

“Dude, focus,” Prompto snaps his fingers in front Noctis’ face in feeble attempt to ground them; taking a deep breath, he draws another chocobo in the margins. When in doubt, always think about chocobos. “Uh… where was I? Oh, yeah. Stuff about growing older.”

Noctis leans over the window table, moved on from the eggs and absent-mindedly tugging on the fingers of Prompto’s left hand. The brush across his knuckles is light, but also distractingly soft.

“…Hey, you ever think about flans? Sometimes I lie awake at night and just… think about flans.”

Prompto doesn’t know what he hates more: Noctis’ obtuseness, or the fact that even after a line like _that_ Prompto can’t help lacing their fingers together.

It’s not his fault he has zero impulse control; someone should have thought about that before they hired him for the job. Wait, _he_ should have thought about that before he _volunteered_ for the job, considering he and Noctis are each other’s worst enablers.

“Work with me here, dude,” he still pleads, confident there’s a way to win this fight, “You once wrote an entire paper on _Cor_. That had to be–– like, ten times more boring than this, so can’t you just, I dunno, throw in some blah blah kingdom, hot damn it feels good to be the prince–– Wait, what the hell is it now?”

There’s another crease on Noctis’ brow, but he’s not staring at Prompto anymore.

Instead, his attention is fixed on something outside the café – to be more precise, a couple waiting for the red light to change across the street. “…Hey, isn’t that Iris and Gladio?”

_Oh my fucking god_ , Prompto wants to scream the moment Noctis gets off his seat and bolts out of the café.

Iris is more than delighted to stop for a chat; she and Gladio are on their way to a bakery. This is a detail Noctis takes suspicious amounts of interest in, which makes Gladio raise a dubious brow; then again, this probably isn’t helped by the bizarre gestures Prompto does behind Noctis’ back, in a striking pantomime of _Please Help, Prince On The Run_.

At this, Gladio just sighs and shakes his head.

“What the shit–– _hey_?!” is all Noctis manages before Gladio kind of–– hoists him on one shoulder, and patiently waits until the light turns green to carry Noctis right back into the café.

“I changed my mind,” Noctis grumbles afterwards, watching as Iris wave through the window before the Amicitias carry on with their day. “I don’t want you in my Crownsguard. You’re already too buddy-buddy with my Shield, and that can’t end well for me. I’m just gonna… swap you out for someone else.”

Prompto gives him an unimpressed stare. “Oh, yeah? Like who?”

“Just this… guy,” Noctis mutters. “You don’t know him. We go way back. He’s called… Lorenzo.”

“Nice,” Prompto notes, then swats Noctis over the head with his notebook. “Maybe this _Lorenzo_ will get you to actually write your goddamn speech, I mean, if he’s not too busy crying because his parents clearly hate him for giving him that name.”

Noctis snorts, and Prompto takes this chance to lean over the table. He looks up, forcing more seriousness into his tone. “…C’mon man,” he sighs, “Why are you so averse to getting this done? It’s not like you haven’t attended boring ass events before.”

Noctis sort of _huffs_ at that, and folds his arms across his chest. Blowing a strand of hair off his face, he looks exactly like the moody kid at twelve – which is exactly what also alerts Prompto to the possibility that maybe, there’s something else hidden underneath the attitude.

There’s a flash of memory of words spoken in Ignis’ car; something very crucial, about the call for strategic warfare. And Noctis, he can be one hostile nation – or maybe a defensive cat, in the guise of a man.

“…Tell you what, buddy,” Prompto breathes out; throwing a conspiratorial arm around Noctis’ shoulder, he adds softly: “If you get–– five hundred words in by two p.m., we can go _fishing_.”

Noctis’ ears virtually perch up at that, and gods, Prompto is _really_ starting to understand what Ignis’ life has been like all these years.

Honestly? the man deserves some kind of an award. Alternatively, a lifetime of therapy.

“…Anywhere I want?” Noctis confirms, and when Prompto responds with fingerguns, his entire face lights up; because to absolutely no-one’s surprise, Noctis is more than capable of churning out a believable string of nonsense when he actually has reason to try.

Then again, it doesn’t take long to dawn on Prompto why he so rarely does.

Because here’s the thing: the words really _are_ little more than nonsense in the end, rehearsed to mean everything and nothing all at once; and as important as this speech supposedly is –for another birthday spent around strangers, somewhere away from home– it’s clearly not the thoughts of _Noctis_ anyone cares about, but those of some faceless prince.

It echoes with something Noctis told him, on the day he applied for the Crownsguard – of foreordained destinies, and things he cannot call his own.

It… makes Prompto feel a little uneasy today, for reasons he doesn’t necessarily feel like dwelling on.

“Alright,” Noctis says, at exactly three minutes to two in the afternoon, slamming the pen on the table; he’s written over the first chocobo in the margins, Prompto notices, but has carefully avoided the rest. “Five hundred fucking words, _there_. Now, can I have my fish?”

Swallowing his sudden unease down, Prompto flashes Noctis a smile.

“Sure thing, buddy!” he quips, voice airy, “Just let me know where you wanna go!”

Noctis looks up, then to the side, then back at Prompto.

There’s something very incriminating about this pause, and it sort of alarms Prompto that he may have just granted Noctis way too much power without knowing what his brain is really capable of.

“So,” Noctis says, and the tone of his voice confirms Prompto’s suspicion. “I know this might sound a little weird, but…”

Prompto braces himself for a lot of things: fishing in Galdin Quay. Fishing in Altissia. Fishing in outer space.

Still, he doesn’t brace himself for what actually leaves Noctis’ mouth:

“…Prom, could we go fish at home?”

*

 Prompto has to hand it to Noctis: this is not even the weirdest thing they have done.

It’s certainly not the dumbest; back at sixteen, Noctis once tried to sell the idea of catching Carbuncle on tape, so they set up their phones to record places where Noctis usually took a nap. In the end, all they ended up recording was Ignis singing along to the top one hit of the Summer, which they never brought up for fear of death.

Still, fishing in _Noctis’ bathtub_ does rank up there with the top… six? of the oddest situations Prompto has found himself in, thanks to their friendship anyway. It’s definitely behind the time Noctis rolled him inside a mattress topper and forgot him there for three hours, though.

“This,” Prompto comments now, staring at the bathtub filled up halfway with a heavy dose of bubbles, “Is not exactly what I imagined, but you know what? Why the hell not. Let’s live life on the edge.”

Noctis gives him a shrug, already rolling his pants up to his knees. “You can honestly train fine tuning like this. The foam is there to obstruct visibility, so you can’t become an expert without practicing how to react to different types of fish.”

“…Noct, these are made of _plastic_.”

“They’re for _training_!” Noctis insists climbing into the tub; Prompto has to literally clamp a hand over his mouth not to bend over twofold from laughter when Noctis pulls out a matching rod, one that’s about half the size of his normal one.

“With five-year-olds?” Prompto hiccups from the stifled laughter, and Noctis shoots him a _look_. “Sorry, sorry! It’s just… okay. Alright. I’m not judging, just sort of… questioning your life choices, bro.”

Prompto tugs up his jeans as high as they go –damn, his calves aren’t pulling off that tortured photographer look as well anymore– and hazards his feet into the water. “Nice. Yeah, this isn’t bizarre at all.”

“You shut your face,” Noctis mutters, but struggles to keep a straight face; he remains standing, while Prompto takes a seat on the side of the tub and prays that this whole endeavour is not about turn into one of those _Nine out of ten fatal accidents take place in your own home!_ infomercials – ‘cause boy, would that be an interesting way to go.

“So, what are we fishing for,” he asks, leaning into his palm. Noctis crouches, and pulls two of what appear to be his treasured _practice fish_ out of the water.

“They’re programmed to react to various touch sensitivity. This one is modelled after the horned bluegill, while this one’s an Allural sea bass,” Noctis explains, either oblivious or simply ignoring the fact that Prompto’s question has been one hundred percent rhetorical. He’ll happily take a bullet for Noctis, yeah, but no power in this world can make Prompto interested in his fish fetish.

“That sounds,” Prompto begins, “Delicious. I bet Iggy would know just the motor oil to go with it. I mean, unless you wanna mount one on your wall and have it sing _Mambo de Chocobo_ every time you walk by.”

“When I become King, I’m gonna outlaw disrespectful rhetoric like that,” Noctis mutters, and Prompto has to shield himself from being pelted with plastic after he retorts with, _More like fish-respectful, am I right?!_

Yet in the hour or so that passes like this, it becomes more and more obvious why they’re here: the time they have is limited, and too valuable to be wasted on playing _the_ _prince_. Inside these walls there’s no need to act casual, and no need to fulfil a role – which should leave Prompto relieved, probably, but it also reminds him of the unease he felt at the café.

“…Hey,” he finds himself tugging on Noctis’ arm, before he can swallow the thought down. “I’m–– uh, sorry for nagging at you earlier. About the speech, I mean. Just because I’m becoming your retainer doesn’t mean I want to become one of _those people_ , y’know?”

Noctis glances back; it comes a little out of the blue, but he also doesn’t seem to hold a grudge.

“…Nah, it’s fine,” Noctis says in a verbal shrug. “I was kinda avoiding it more than usual, anyway.”

Still seated on the side of the tub, it’s Prompto’s turn to give Noctis a _look_. “Dude, you don’t say?” he jeers, lifting up one foot; it comes to surface with a cloud of bubbles, and a green fish stuck to his toe.

“…Feel like sharing why, though?” he adds with some caution; not because they don’t trust in each other completely, but… well, there have always been sides to Noctis’ life that he cannot really put in words to himself, let alone explain to anyone else.

Today, however, Noctis lets out a long exhale.

“…I’m not really sure,” he murmurs, staring at the cloudy water. There’s no real guardedness in his tone, but the way his shoulders pull inwards still reminds Prompto of a wall being drawn up. “Just… reminds me of stuff I’d rather not think about right now, I guess.”

At first, Prompto says nothing at that.

Because there it is again – the feeling in his gut that something’s _off_ about Noctis’ aversion to his speech. It’s the type of feeling that tells him they’re about to hit a territory that’s loaded with mines, like any conversation that treads too close to their future; but with each month that passes in a haze of dumb adventures, they’re slowly running out of things to hide behind.

The fish on his foot skips from one toe to another, some electronic device jolting it from the inside out.

“…Noct, what’s your trip really about?”

The underlying seriousness in Prompto’s voice is enough to make Noctis turn to him head on. It’s the kind of tone that says, _I’d rather know the truth than know nothing at all_ , and when Noctis responds, it’s as though the words come from somewhere outside this room.

“I think,” he says, “I think they might want to talk about marriage.”

At first, Prompto feels nothing at that.

“Well,” he responds at last, “Cool to know you weren’t holding back something that actually matters, huh.”

Something tenses in Noctis’ jaw, and all Prompto can think of is, _Fuck_.

And it’s right about here that Prompto wishes his life really were a bad romantic comedy, so someone could yell _Cut!_ and redo the entire scene; because he knows it’s not–– fair, to swipe Noctis with passive aggression, but he also cannot swallow down the anxiety that comes with being left in the dark.

(There’s a sound at the back of his head, and it’s growing louder, louder, _louder_ ––)

“Prom,“ Noctis finally says it out loud, and just like that Prompto’s back in his room after the Winter Reception, back in the conference room after their graduation, back in every moment where reality has tried its hardest to _warn him_ _about this exact fucking moment_ , and it’s kind of doing his head in.

There’s some real poetic irony here, alright: it really _is_ different to imagine a lot of things, than to actually have them happen.

But then there’s a splash where something drops into the water, and a wave where it washes over Prompto’s shins; the clang of Noctis’ knees banging against the side of the tub, when he kneels next to Prompto and tightly grabs his hand.

“Shit, this is–– stupid,” Noctis breathes, sounding exasperated, “Look, I don’t even know what the hell’s gonna happen on that trip, and I don’t want things to get–– weird. So I’m calling Rule Number One on this topic until anything becomes official. I can do that, right?”

Prompto opens his mouth, then closes it.

The noise in his head still feels like a broken feed, but Noctis’ hand is also grounding him to reality. Somehow, that’s all it takes to–– pull him back, from whichever junction of worlds his mind is headed, until he finds his voice.

“Yeah,” he swallows, “We… can do that, yeah.”

Noctis lets out a breath of unmistakable relief, and for a moment Prompto is hyperaware of everything in this room: the conflict on Noctis’ face, the warmth of his skin, the foam that undulates on Prompto’s legs. He looks down at his feet, at the tiny fishing rod floating on the surface; looks at the boy soaked knee deep in the water, hanging on to his next word.

It’s one of those moments when you feel a lot like laughing, because it’s all you can do not to scream.

“…You know what, Noct,” Prompto finally says, those familiar bubbles swirling in his stomach, “I guess we found an even more balls up way to have that _What Are We_ talk.”

Noctis’ face just–– twitches at that, and with a thud Prompto finds himself pulled right into the tub.

It does little to dispel the ridiculousness, but Noctis’ chest is warm and solid, holding Prompto by the shoulders until he feels like himself again; until the hiccups of his laughter turn genuine, instead of a defense mechanism around his heart.

Afterwards, they drain the water and Prompto braids a yellow fish in Noctis’ hair. They have a foam fight, and when they kiss, tiny fish get squashed under Prompto’s back; it might last a minute, or maybe an hour – his whole memory is a bit blurry after that.

_Look,_ Prompto remembers saying that night, _Boyfriend, best friend… in the end, all of that just messes with my head. It’s not like calling things by another name changes anything, so_ _maybe… we should just not think about it too much. Maybe we should just be us._

Whether an untraceable shadow passes Noctis’ cheeks or not, well, it’s gone and washed before Prompto notices the disappointment in his smile; because tonight they’re still young, and stupid, and the future lies somewhere in the unknown – making it easier than it should be, probably, to bridge hope with the optimism only those who are foolishly in love can afford.

A month and a half later, Noctis leaves on his trip.

On the night of his speech, he sends Prompto a selfie where Ignis facepalms in the background; _Nailed it_ , the caption says, with an emoji of a skull and a bottle of champagne.

Two days after Noctis’ nineteenth birthday, there’s an official announcement.

_With great honour_ , it says in fancy letters, _we would like to congratulate the Prince and the Oracle on their engagement._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time on the same channel: Some parts of growing up are harder than others.
> 
> (I said there wouldn't be a twist, and I meant it; I didn't say anything about cliffhangers, though.)  
> (Also yes, I am shamelessly self-referential at times. It's a bad habit.)
> 
> As usual, feel free to come chat with me about these idiots or hear more about my doujin thoughts over at @icecreambat on tumblr or twitter (which I put back on public recently, cos apparently my brain wants even more distraction from writing my actual papers, oops). gdi now i want to go fishing


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, fun fact: what happens when you simultaneously want to keep your narrative progression intact, but are also self-indulgent when it comes to smut? A 10k monster chapter with 6k of the former and 4k of the latter, that’s what.
> 
> Choices.
> 
> Thank you so much to anyone who’s reading, leaving kudos, and especially commenting. It really means a lot, so thank you, internet friend, for sharing this weird ass roller coaster ride with me.

 

 

and apart from when i lost my virginity  
i’ve never been known to frighten easily

\- _Last Night I Dreamt_ , The Wombats

 

  

They need new rules. 

They need new rules they need new rules they need _new rhfsjksdjsjdhdsj_ , as Prompto types in a message that he ultimately never sends.

Since the morning he wakes up to the royal engagement announcement blasting from five different media outlets, the fact that his training ends one week later becomes a convenient way to distract his thoughts. This includes, but is not limited to: two hundred and seventy two virtual targets, seven cracked fingertips, countless practice laps, and his phone set on flight mode.

“With all due respect,” Ignis tells him after he and Noctis return home from their trip, “This type of avoidance strategy is not only juvenile, but also rather fruitless. An actual adult conversation would solve everything much faster.”

Of course Prompto knows this. He swears he’s not trying to act like a–– jilted lover, or any dumb bullshit like that. But he also physically cannot make himself pick up the phone, because as long as he remains at some self-inflicted Schrödinger’s gunpoint, he’ll never have to hear the first words to come out of Noctis’ mouth – in case they change the rules of their friendship forever.

“With all due respect,” Gladio tells him after the week nears its end, and Prompto still hasn’t gone through his messages, “This is kinda pathetic, and you gotta stop being an asshole to Noct.”

There’s a lot of comfort to be had in self-pity, but Gladio’s right. This is why Prompto finally gathers his courage on Thursday afternoon, sitting down in the empty locker room; it’s not necessarily the best place to tackle this subject, but he’s trying to strike a middle ground between private and public, unsure how much buffer he needs between his thoughts.

Of course, those fateful first words don’t carry quite the dramatic weight once he slides open Noctis’ most _recent_ text, and it reads:

 

_prom im goNNA FUCKIN PUNCH YOU IN THE NUTS_

 

Yeah, he probably owes Noctis a call. 

“So,” Noctis says, picking up on the second ring. The line distorts his voice just enough that Prompto can project whichever emotion he wants into that voice – disappointment, anger, take your pick. “Contrary to popular belief, you’re not actually dead.”

Prompto doesn’t really know what to say to that.

He doesn’t know what to say to anything, these days; it’s all a weird, looping feed in his head, comprising of a million and one _I told you so’s_ and the grating shriek of his self-esteem. It makes him feel like–– not himself, and it’s not a feeling he likes very much.

“In my defense,” is all he can respond with, “You knew I was an idiot back when we met.”

This, it turns out, Noctis cannot argue with; instead, there’s a sigh on the other end of the line. What follows is the sound of clothes rustling, like a jacket being pulled on.

“You still at the training grounds, Prom? ‘Cause I–– think I know what’ll sort this out faster than any bullshit over the phone.”

That’s how Noctis ends up in the training hall with hunched shoulders and dark circles under his eyes, and Prompto’s pretty sure this is what it feels like being shoved into a garbage disposal.

Because something about Noctis’ universe has irrefutably changed as well, something that he really could have needed his best friend to talk about; and Prompto _knows_ he’s fucked this whole thing up, but talking about it would mean admitting to _why_ it makes him upset, and he’s… just not sure if he can put any of that into words.

It’s a true relief, then, that Noctis isn’t demanding them yet.

“Prom, if you’re pissed off–– I get it,“ Noctis begins, and when he speaks he sounds… tired, rather than angry. “But I’d rather you–– at least showed that to me directly, cause ignoring me? Is just a really dick move.”

Well, it _is_ true.

Whenever they’ve butted heads in the past –if Noctis was too stubborn, or Prompto’s fuse too short– the obvious solution was always to just head-butt it _out_. So what if they haven’t really sparred together since Prompto started Crownsguard training? This radio silence shit is clearly throwing both of them off their game, with restlessness bursting out of his skin.

“Does this mean,” Prompto cautiously hazards, “That we’re gonna have an epic showdown to the death?”

He hopes it’s a good sign that Noctis lets out an unintentional _pffft_. “Only if you think there’s any chance you’d actually win.”

It briefly occurs to Prompto that they might be about to breach some royal rule of conduct (wait, _is_ it illegal to punch your Prince in the face?), but it’s a little late for those second guesses once he is given approximately two and a half seconds to block the high round kick headed his way.

“Wh–– dude!!” he blurts out, staggering backwards a bit from the abruptness of the blow. “Since when did we already start?!”

“Since you decided to ghost me for a fucking week?” comes the curt response as Noctis pulls his shoulders back for a better stance, and okay, yeah, he might be a little angry after all.

 _Fair enough_ , Prompto has the time to think before he has to shield his upper body with his arms. It’s not that Noctis is deliberately trying to hit him, but he’s not deliberately trying _not_ to, either; thank the Astrals for these past months, then, because it takes him every ounce of concentration to roll out of the way at the rapid offence, most of which he can only read thanks to his and Noctis’ time at the dojo over the years.

On the other hand, _Noctis_ hasn’t been around for Prompto’s training, which means that ability is not mutual. It’s a crucial flaw, because he reads Prompto with outdated info, expecting him to always parry without a direct counter. Using this element of surprise to his favour, then, at the next outstretched arm Prompto leans in and grabs Noctis’ wrist; a swift palm heel strike catches Noctis by the throat while a kick in the Achilles tendon knocks him down to one knee.

Coughing violently at the sudden pressure on his throat, Noctis makes no attempt to retaliate. “Phh–– fuck me, that hurts!”

“Not as much as–– your jugular notch would,” Prompto heaves into his arm; rubbing his elbow where it hit the side of Noctis’ boot, he plops down to the ground. “So you–– done, or still feel like beating me over the head?”

Luckily, Noctis seems to have broken out of his spell. He lets his other knee fall, landing cross-legged next to Prompto; the look on his face is as sheepish as the time he used a Javelin to open a stuck jar of mayonnaise. “…Sorry. I guess I went a bit overboard.”

“No shit,” Prompto sighs, but another part of him is actually–– a little relieved, seeing Noctis so unhinged; it alleviates his nerves about what’s bound to happen next. There’s a voice inside his mind, saying _An actual adult conversation would solve everything much faster_ , but considering their impromptu rendition of Super Lucian Fighter IV has drained all excess tension in the room, maybe there’s some merit to both.

That doesn’t mean it’s not on Prompto to bite the bullet, though.

Sighing, he wraps his arms around his knees. “…Look, Noct, I’m… real sorry I dropped off the grid like that. It was–– fucked up of me, and you _should_ be angry. I know I’ve been a really shitty friend.”

Leaning his forehead into those knees, Prompto shakes his head. “I just–– I don’t know how to do this? I’ve never… had a best friend get married before.”

Well, that’s certainly one way of putting the hundred and five shrieking banshees in his head.

Noctis takes a deep breath, but also shifts closer to Prompto so that their knees touch; it’s a simple gesture, but stops a part of Prompto’s chest from caving in.

“It’s not gonna happen for another _year_ , Prom,” Noctis mutters. He sounds no less lost than Prompto feels, staring at his hands now that the adrenaline is wearing off. “…But I get it. And it’s–– okay. I didn’t know until the day they announced it, either.”

There’s another silence, and Prompto wishes he could get Ignis’ voice out of his head – because this whole _having an adult conversation_ thing? Kinda fucking sucks.

“So… how do you…” Prompto starts anew, hesitating on how to angle for neutral ground. It’s kinda like playing minesweeper, except there’s a neutron bomb waiting in every other square. “…How does… How do both of you feel about all this?”

Noctis brushes his bangs out of his eyes. “I haven’t… talked to Luna properly yet. But I guess she’s alright. Guess I’m… alright. I mean… This was the best case scenario for both of us, in the end.”

Prompto nods. It’s an exhaustive response to a question he didn’t even need to ask; if anything, he’s relieved that Noctis gets to marry someone he loves, and that Luna doesn’t have to marry some gross old dude. If anything, he’s over the moon for them. If anything, he…

(hates every fucking minute of this, and it’s not like Noctis cannot tell)

“Look, I…” Noctis breathes out then, but when he finally meets Prompto’s gaze there’s something–– almost scared in his eyes. They’re the eyes that Prompto remembers from his childhood, of grainy newspaper photos and snippets on the TV – because it was their very loneliness that made Prompto always wonder, _I know he’s the prince, but he still looks like someone who knows exactly how I feel._

Life is a goddamn quicksand, but Prompto knows he’s better than this.

So he clamps his hands on Noctis’ shoulders, cutting him off before he can finish. “You–– you wanna come over to my house tomorrow night? I mean–– that’s when my training finishes. My parents aren’t home, and I think–– that it would be good if we, like. Talked. Properly about this.”

He swallows, makes a light gesture. “Y’know, about–– us.”

Wow, how’s _that_ for a sudden burst of maturity?

Noctis’ eyes widen with instant relief. “Yeah. That… that’s probably smart,” he breathes out, and Prompto even manages a smile.

Uh huh, they’re killing it with this adulting shit. Ignis better be proud.

But in the wave of calmness that sets in, what comes is also an acute awareness of the warmth of Noctis’ shoulders – of the way his lips part in a half-finished syllable, noticing their lack of distance. And Prompto knows, _knows_ that it’s not smart to give into that impulse, not while everything’s still a giant clusterfuck between them, but Noctis’ arm already cranes around his neck––

A string of noise trails in from the locker rooms, and it’s sobering enough to snap Prompto’s head back – whether from distraction, or simple déjà vu.

“Wait,” he stammers, the memory of security surveillance mixing with the prospect of the cleaners walking in, “We probably should–– uh.“

Their brief sparring session must have re-established their half-telepathic link, because Noctis takes a _very_ deep breath.

Pushing off the ground, he helps Prompto back on his feet. With a look that’s half resignation and half frustration, he turns to the nearest security camera and gives it an unimpressed wave.

“Hope _you’re_ enjoying this, dude.”

Of the maelstrom of emotions Prompto’s slammed himself through in the past ten minutes, this is the one that finally makes him lose his shit.

“Noct–– I swear to fucking god––“ he chokes out in laughter, trying not to choke on hysteria, or relief, or possibly both; but a wry smile curves the side of Noctis’ mouth, and it’s full of naked fondness.

“Maybe there’s a guy up there, maybe there’s not–– we just don’t know,” he goes on, arm hooking around Prompto’s waist, which both makes it better and absolutely worse.

“I bet–– it’s your old pal _Lorenzo_ ,” he wheezes through his nose, tripping over his feet as he elbows Noctis towards the exit – he doesn’t want to be here when the cleaning gets in, since it might be the lady who’s always staring at him funny. (Some guys say she’s got a crush. Prompto thinks she just wants to fight him.)

And yet, it’s the senselessness of the moment that helps him slide right back into his skin; helps him feel–– normal, and grounded, and all those corny things that allow Prompto to look Noctis in the eye before they part.

This time, however, Noctis gets there first.

“Prom––“ he starts, a hand catching Prompto by the shoulder. He still seems a little hesitant before he speaks, but no longer looks afraid. “I could tell you were–– holding back there. With the sparring, I mean. But you know you’re… allowed to be angry too, right?”

It feels a little less like quicksand, hearing those words aloud.

Prompto takes a breath, then shakes his head.

“…Yeah, I know. But there’s… kinda no point in screaming at you for something that’s not even your fault.”

Huh. Maybe they’re both more grown up than they give themselves credit for.

Noctis seems to agree with this, because the smile he returns is unusually soft. “Tomorrow, then?” he confirms, and bites on his lip like stifling a private smile. “We could–– scream at other things, if you want.”

Ah, fuck.

There’s an old proverb that goes, _I tried so hard and I got so far, but in the end it doesn’t even matter_ ; and there’s absolutely no way for Prompto to stay _mature_ at the sound of this, or the look of that, or the breath that’s been lodged up in his lungs for a week.

When he finally leans in and lets it out against Noctis’ lips, the kiss connects like something drowning, with days’ worth of tension and twice the release; there’s the briefest stun on Noctis’ face, the kiss followed by a quick brush of Prompto’s thumb on his cheek – before it grips the collar of Noctis’ shirt, and kicks him out the door.

Point one for Prompto: this is how you act juvenile _and_ an adult, all in one go.

“Say hi to the rest of your imaginary friends on the way out!” he calls out, and the bark of Noctis’ laughter blends with his footsteps echoing off the walls.

For a while the world rests easy in the afternoon glow, and Prompto, well, he just stands there until the sound of those footsteps is gone.

Then he turns around, stares directly into the security camera, and just in case–– gives it the middle finger.

*

It rains on the following night.

It starts off slow and gradually escalates, until Prompto’s windows are streaked with endless streams. They weave into another while he walks around in circles, trying to sort out his thoughts: so, he’s probably gonna have to _talk about his feelings_ or some shit, but the problem is he still has no idea what he wants to say. 

Maybe he should take up Noctis’ offer to scream at things. They could hit a local parking lot and yell at passing cars. That has to be a completely legitimate substitute for having a serious relationship talk; well, in some cultures anyway.

Okay, fine, this whole situation has been a long time coming, and the time for fucking around is respectfully over. Not that you could tell it from the way the evening starts: when the door finally rings and Noctis shows up on his doorstep, wearing what appears to be… an orange raincoat, probably, unless he’s turned into a traffic cone overnight.

“Pro tip,” he hisses through his teeth, pulling back the hood and splaying water everywhere with a shake of his head, “When Iggy tells you to take the umbrella? _Do it_.”

Between Prompto’s hysterical laughter and Noctis trying to smother him with said raincoat, yeah, they’ve definitely got this _serious relationship talk_ vibe down.

But it’s… fine. It’s quite fitting, even, because after yesterday’s awkward attempts at a _normal_ conversation, clearly that’s just not their style. Which seems like a mutual thought, considering that by the time Noctis makes it to the living room, he faceplants into the couch with a groan.

“This fucking sucks,” he mutters, and turns around when Prompto threatens to sit on his back if he doesn’t make more space for his ass. “Can’t we just–– I dunno. Pretend like none of this is happening for an entire year?”

Prompto rolls his eyes, but no sting follows those words anymore. He’s not sure why; maybe it’s the fact that this whole _marriage_ thing is finally out there in the open, so the two of them haven’t got much left to lose. “Nah, buddy – I tried that for a week, remember? Didn’t really work out.”

Noctis responds with some unintelligible grumble, but also turns until the two of them sit cross-legged and facing each other. His brows knit together briefly, before he lifts his head and looks at Prompto.

“…So, how about this,” Noctis breathes, “We just–– make a plan. About what we’re gonna do until the wedding, so shit doesn’t hit the fan again. That should work, right?”

Prompto nods, because their number one priority from here on out should be protecting this ridiculous ass friendship, even if it means revising their rules. Well, _Rule Number One_ hasn’t exactly changed – only do what they’re both cool with doing. Shit, that’s still plain as day.

But as for _Rule Number Two_ …

Prompto takes a deep breath, staring at Noctis’ knee like it will grant him all the answers in the world. “…Six months before you get married––“ he says, “I think, that’s where this whole… _advanced_ _bro_ should stop.”

He’s had a lot of time to think about this, and it’s the only option that really seems right. It’s also the option he can speak aloud with conviction, because as long as he focuses on Luna, he doesn’t have to focus on himself. “It should be enough time to readjust things–– Y’know, so the rumours also stop.”

He’s not sure either one of them believes it, but for the sake of the argument it’s all he’s got. Even if Luna doesn’t give a shit about what they do in various states of undress, the Powers That Be still might, and that’s not a treaty they can risk just for uncontrollable hormones.

“What happens afterwards, that’s–– obviously on you guys to decide,” Prompto goes on, clinging to the resolve he’s spent the past few days rehearsing, “But it’s not cool to drag Luna into this mess, ‘cause I kinda–– owe everything I have to her, and would rather shoot myself in the face than ruin her wedding.”

“Yeah,” Noctis mutters, and when Prompto steals a glance at him, he’s staring out the rain-streaked window. Or at it, because the things he sees are probably not even in this world. “…That seems fair.”

Honestly? As much as this was inevitable, Prompto’s not so hot on this mood drop as they gear towards _Rule Number Three._ His whole conviction rests on Noctis playing along, and he doesn’t want to know what happens if Noctis does not.

“Okay, you know what?” Prompto pulls a face, fisting his hand on the fabric over Noctis’ knee. He’s not sure why he’s so fixated on that knee tonight. Although it is a really nice knee. “This is–– starting to sound like we’re talking about a freaking funeral. Come on, I’ll–– let you decide the last rule, so make it wild.”

At this, Noctis’ brows lift, and Prompto wants to bite his tongue – because yeah, giving unlimited power to Noctis sure went _real well_ the last time around. However, the Astrals seem to be merciful and _Rule Number Three_ does not, in fact, turn into eternal fishing; instead, a look of concentration sets on that same brow, until Noctis grabs both of Prompto’s hands.

“Let’s make a list.”

“What?” Prompto replies, and Noctis lifts their adjoined hands to point at a notepad nearby.

“A list,” Noctis repeats, “Of all the shit we wanna do, while we still have those six months left. ‘Cause… I’m thinking that’s roughly when I stop having any free time anyway, so might as well make it count.”

Oddly enough, Prompto really likes the sound of that. “So… basically what you’re saying is–– _Rule Number Three_ is to fuck shit up?”

“No, you loser,“ Noctis lets out a genuine laugh, and Prompto likes the sound of that even more, “ _Rule Number Three_ is… everything we do in the next six months, we also gotta do without regret.”

“Yeah, okay, that’s a better one,” Prompto smiles, but there’s something soaring in his chest that he hasn’t felt in a while – it’s a lot like excitement, or relief, or some third emotion that… he was sort of afraid he might have to tell Noctis about tonight.

But for once the Astrals are not only merciful, but they are also kind; so he’s able to swallow the feeling down as Noctis pushes a piece of paper in his hand (“Just write against my back, man”), and the two of them fall into a comfortable silence. There’s only the sound of rain beating against the window, leaving Prompto calmer than he’s felt in ages.

At first his head draws a complete blank.

The more he writes though, the more creative the list also gets:

 

_\- photos photos photos (wanna catch that perfect warp moment!!)_

_\- get on the rooftop of the tallest building in Insomnia (these two might be related)_

_\- go through the entire Crow’s Nest menu in one day_

_\- invent our own ball game_

_\- bad zombie movie marathon: bet on whose face will be eaten first_

\- _get so drunk i can’t remember my own name_

\- _shopping cart racing WHUDDUP (maybe reconsider. might break some bones)_

_\- uh, maybe like, possibly, fooling around. a lot_

_\- uhhhhhhhhhhhhh_

_\- it is a mystery_

 

His skin starts to feel warmer towards the end, so he opts against actually spelling his thoughts out; instead, he reaches over Noctis’ shoulder. “You done over there yet, buddy?”

Noctis almost bashes Prompto in the face with the back of his head. “Hey, no peeking. I’m still–– uh. Stuck on phrasing.”

“Dude, this isn’t one of Iggy’s eloquence lectures. Come on, lemme see!”

“H, hey––“ Noctis stutters, one hand fighting against Prompto’s chokehold and another stretching out; as Prompto’s legs wrap around his waist and his heels dig into Noctis’ stomach, they come very close to repeating the famous incident with the remote. This time, however, Prompto has the insight to climb on top of Noctis as he rolls around – leaving the piece of paper up for grabs.

“Ah- _hah_! Gotcha!”

Ignoring the way Noctis curses under his breath, Prompto pulls up the list and feigns adjusting glasses he’s not wearing. “Let’s see… Hah! I also wrote down the marathon, great minds think alike! Aw man, a full day at the arcade? Yeah, we deffo gotta do that now… _What Has Science Done_ pizza? Huh, I like the sound of that, and–– Oh. _Oh._ ”

Noctis’ entire head turns as he averts his eyes, knowing which part of the list Prompto must have reached.

“Sooo, about them… anaks,” Noctis kind of hums to himself, because sure indeed, there are two particular lines that have come to hold Prompto’s full attention:

 

_i want to fuck you on every surface of my goddamn apartment_

_\+ same as above, but the other way around_

 

Prompto swallows, but it comes out more like a cough. 

“W––well,” he says, making peculiar expressions as he tries to construct a response. There’s a funny kind of shiver that passes his spine at the sloppy handwriting, searing his skin as it goes. “I, uh. I mean. Ya sure got–– a way with words, buddy.”

Noctis could probably light up an entire bonfire with his skin. “––I didn’t think you were gonna read it _right now_.”

“No, it’s–– cool,” Prompto waves a quick hand, because boy is it suddenly harder to focus, “It’s a valid thing to–– have planned–– for the future, yeah. “

“…For the future, yeah,” Noctis echoes, but decidedly still avoids looking him in the eye.

All at once, Prompto’s acutely aware of the implications of having this conversation while still essentially straddling Noctis, and it’s not that he _minds_ the implications, but–– something in his nerves kicks in like a knee-jerk reaction, shoving a foot in his mouth.

“Just so happens,“ he counters, in that altogether flippant tone that means he’s everything but, “I totally–– would have written the same, except my house is–– a lot shittier, and most of this stuff would break under your weight.”

Yeah, there’s no way Noctis’ face doesn’t crack at that.

“Wh–– Gimme back my damn list,” he huffs in half embarrassment half laughter, and nearly pushes Prompto off the couch reaching for the paper.

“ _Never_ …” he reads out loud while hastily scribbling down, “ _Have… sex… with… Prom… EVER… ‘cos… he’s… a… bodyshaming… goon_.”

Well, that sure escalated quickly.

“HEY!!” Prompto practically shrieks, lunging for his own list – because two people can play _this_ game. “Check this out, bro: _Never… have… sex… with… Noct… EITHER… ‘cos… he’s… got a thing… for… Kenny Crow!!_ ”

Noctis lets out a sound like a dying gigantoad, trying to wrestle Prompto for the list. “The fuck, man?!” he screams, voice cracking like he’s fourteen again. “It was _one_ weird dream!!”

“Yeah well, you’re just gonna have to revisit it to get some action now,” Prompto quips wriggling in his death grip, and smears the entire paper in Noctis’ face. “‘Cause this list is final, dude!”

“Whatever, I didn’t want you anywhere near my dick anyway!!”

“Awesome!! ‘Cause I didn’t want you anywhere near mine!!”

“Fine!!”

“More than fine!!” Prompto yells in a final attempt to one-up Noctis, before they both give up in a heap of limbs and Prompto’s lungs feel like they’ll crawl through his nose. But there’s also a burst of laughter in his chest and something light in his bones; he doesn’t know how this always just–– happens, but once more he has no idea what originally made him so nervous.

With a hint of hesitation, Noctis’ head leans over his shoulder.

“…These lists aren’t like, really final, right?” he says, sounding a lot like the time he accidentally sold the rarest piece of furniture in Cactuar Crossing, “‘Cause, I mean, uh… I might not have meant all of mine.”

Glancing back, Prompto’s mouth twitches.

There’s some marker stuck on Noctis’ forehead, like an H-shaped beauty mark in blue; his hair sticks out in weird angles from rubbing against the back of the couch, and the v-neck hangs off his shoulder like he’s just woken up after a one-week coke bender in Galdin Quay.

Yep, there’s probably something _very_ wrong with Prompto’s taste, because that idiot is still the most attractive thing he’s ever seen.

“Nah,” he says, and gives Noctis’ head a comforting pat. “…Pretty sure I’m still gonna fuck you.”

*

Maybe he’s been worried for nothing.

The night continues much in the same vein –with a mixture of joshing and bravado that’s all too often teenage boys’ claim to fame–, and if Prompto didn’t know any better, he could almost swear that the past week has been some elaborate joke. Marriage, or responsibilities… it’s hard to think about the future in concrete terms when you’re a month away from nineteen, and never even had to fill your own taxes.

But that night he watches Noctis slouch on his couch, throwing potato chips at the TV; listens to him recite stories from the official trip, and how he fell asleep into a plate of toast one morning; laughs at the impersonation of Ignis politely avoiding the pursuits of some middle-aged lady (“She wore purple fur!! _Purple!!_ ”), and tries to drown the hum of his heart when Noctis murmurs on his shoulder, _Ugh, all of that shit is so boring without you_.

Turns out life isn’t merely quicksand, it’s a constant rerun too.

Because almost one year ago, they lived out this exact scenario on the night after the Winter Festival, and it’s no easier to ignore that hum now than it was then; almost one year later the rerun plays in technicolour as they climb into Prompto’s single, but naïve as they still are about the future, a lot… has also changed, from back then.

“…Hey, Prom,” Noctis breathes out, ankle tapping against Prompto’s and an arm pillowed under his head. “You ever… think about things that didn’t actually happen?”

Wait, hold up. Which freaking story _is_ he in, again?

Noticing the weird look on Prompto’s face, Noctis lets out a snort. “No, I–– I mean, just like–– general what ifs. If, for example…” he does a gesture with his other hand, to signal _look at this completely random example, which was totally not my point all along_ , “If we’d never talked about–– _this_. After the Winter Reception.”

So, that makes two of them.

Tugging on the front of Noctis’ shirt, Prompto lets out a sigh. “…I mean, I guess? I’ve definitely wondered if things would’ve been–– y’know, easier. If none of this had happened.”

For a moment, Noctis is silent. Then his hand reaches out, and jabs Prompto square in the forehead.

“…Dude, it still would have totally happened.”

A burst of laughter escapes Prompto’s lips. “Well, _yeah_ ,” he admits, because much as he sometimes likes to pretend all of this is just some delirious teenage dream, they’re long past the point of pretending it’s some stray teenage mistake.

Which, in many ways, is the exact problem here.

“…So.” This time it’s Noctis who twines his fingers lightly with the hair on the back of Prompto’s neck; the rain keeps pattering against the window, and it blends with the hum of his heart. “Are we really gonna spend the next six months just calling it _advanced bro_?”

…Ah, _shit_.

And this, ladies and gentlemen and everything above or beyond, is the most dreaded of all rom-com clichés: the _talk about your feelings_ scene. Once upon a time it would have instantly derailed Prompto into asinine jokes, or to clamp up like he did a week ago, but tonight–– he also feels lighter, as if the very feeling locked up in his chest leaves him buoyant instead of weighing him down.

“I dunno, man,” he says, and from this up close the colour of Noctis’ irises keeps shifting. “If you feel like LARPing stereotypical dudes with zero emotional awareness, I guess that’s one way to go.”

…Okay, he’s still allowed to crack _some_ dumb jokes.

In the look Noctis shoots back, amusement meets something unguarded, and yeah – it’s that affection Prompto’s been dancing around for well over a year now. But while the words always make everything so much _harder_ … sometimes they also hold the power to make you free.

Prompto takes another breath, then exhales.

“…Hey, you remember back when we were sixteen? The rules of friendship Iggy made?”

Noctis’ hand finds the side of Prompto’s arm, fingertips trailing the skin below his t-shirt. “…Yeah?”

“…It’s just…” Boy, Prompto sure can’t decide whether this feels more like a thrill, or just gnawing his own leg off. “I think he was trying to protect–– me, instead of you. ‘Cause if I ever fucked up the original Rule Number Three and–– accidentally, like, _fell in love with my best friend_ ––“

The noise in his head grows louder, as he stares at the string of photographs taped on his wall.

“Well, then we’d be right where we are now.”

Noctis shifts like he’s about to say something, but is halted by the quick shake of Prompto’s head. “But it’s–– cool, y’know? That’s–– that’s what the other six months are for,” he blurts out with a laugh, though it doesn’t hold much mirth. “Work that shit out of my system and all, buddy! ‘Cause the most important thing–– is our friendship, and I’m not letting anything mess it up.”

“Prom––“ Noctis tries again, but this is one line of thought Prompto needs to finish uninterrupted.

Pushing up to his elbows, he can virtually feel the echo of the year gone by when it’s his turn to silence Noctis with a press of his fingertips. “No–– lemme finish, okay? ‘Cause I also need you to understand that–– all that dumb shit? It’s not the reason I’m taking this oath. I meant it when I said that regardless of what happens, we’ll always be bros. Because…”

(Weird, isn’t it. Just thinking about it, even at a moment like this, is enough to make him warm.)

“…I just like being the person I am when I’m with you, Noct. Hell, I probably wouldn’t mind being that person for the rest of my life. And I know I’m gonna continue to be–– as long as I stay by your side.”

It’s not the confession of romantic comedies, of fairytale princes and dreams, no. Yet silly as the words may be, they’re still one hundred percent his own.

For a moment afterwards, Noctis remains silent.

“…You know you’re not the only one who fucked up Rule Number Three, right?” he finally says, and one year later, a thousand and one alarms still ring loud and clear in Prompto’s mind.

…The only difference is, he’s no longer sure what they’re really even trying to warn him of, anymore.

Slowly, Prompto rests his head back on Noctis’ chest; the haste of that beat drains out the alarms, until all that’s left is a steady thump of Noctis’ heart.

“…So… how ‘bout them… anaks, huh?” he says.

Outside the window, rain continues to fall.

*

So, good news and bad news.

The good news is that twelve-year-old Prompto would be stoked as shit to know that one of these days, the Crown Prince of Lucis would fall in love with him. 

The bad news is that the almost-nineteen-year-old Prompto now has to somehow deal with the fact that the Crown Prince of Lucis is, in fact, in love with him.

And it’s not that he’s not _stoked as shit_ too (that kinda comes with the territory of confirming your feelings are mutual), but almost-nineteen-year-old Prompto is also _freaked out as shit_ because–– yeah, this most certainly complicates things.

“Would it work if–– we just never talk about it? Like… maybe we’ll forget about it. I mean, I had a–– huge crush on this girl Olivia in third grade, and I never told her anything. Now I can’t even remember the colour of her hair!”

Noctis snorts, and it makes Prompto’s head bounce on his chest.

“With that level of empirical evidence, I don’t see how this plan could _possibly_ fail,” Noctis remarks, but there’s something in his tone that’s also strangely resigned – like somehow, he’s not nearly as bothered by the _serious repercussions_ that this whole line of conversation might yield.

Instead, he seems to find it more than easy to just reach out and tug at Prompto’s shoulder, until they’re face to face again. “Guess this explains why you’ve always been so reluctant to talk about any of this stuff, huh.”

“I’ve never––“ Prompto begins in protest, but a flash of recollection also reminds him of all the times he’s cockblocked Noctis from, y’know, _confessing_ – whether during some variation of the _What Are We_ talk, or by ghosting him for a week.

…Yeah, alright, he may have dug this foxhole all on his own.

“It’s not my fault,” Prompto still grumbles, digging his chin into Noctis’ collarbone ( _Hey, ow!_ ). “…I’ve just got an over-active self-defense mechanism.”

Noctis raises a _very_ dubious brow. “You? _You?_ The ‘let’s see what happens if I try to Noseblunt slide over the hood of Iggy’s car’ you?”

“I said self-defense mechanism, not rationale,” Prompto grimaces, trying to resist the contagiousness of Noctis’ mirth. “Seriously, though… You know it’s different for me, right? I mean… the worst case scenario for you is still that you marry the prettiest girl on Eos. For me, it’s always been–– I dunno, a pick between becoming that crazy dog dude with twenty shiba inus, or throwing myself into Mt. Ravatogh.”

Sympathetic as Noctis looks, he also lifts a brow. “So, you’re telling me that since I’m being wed to basically my own big sister, I’m also not allowed to admit I’m in _lo_ ––“

“–– _And behold_ , buddy!” Prompto wails, and clamps an actual hand on Noctis’ mouth. “I hereby declare that a _forbidden word_ in all of Lucis. We don’t deal with that blasphemy, go straight to jail, do not collect two hundred.”

“…What the shit? You can’t just–– _ban_ a word.”

“Uh huh. Can, and did. Because nothing good will come out of actually _saying_ it!”

Noctis’s eyes narrow, the way they often do when someone tries to order him around with something he doesn’t agree with.

“Yeah, I’m gonna need to amend my list,” he states way too calmly, and almost knocks the wind out of Prompto as he climbs over and towards the desk. Grabbing a ballpoint pen, Noctis yanks Prompto upright on the bed.

“Wait, wha––“ Prompto stutters, eyes wide once Noctis lifts up the back of Prompto’s shirt, then writes something underneath his shoulder blades.

“What the fuck?!”

“Enjoy your censorship, bro,” Noctis shrugs, tossing the pen over his shoulder and giving him a _look_ ; meanwhile Prompto tries to bend over twofold to read what’s inscribed on his skin.

“C’mon–– what the hell did you just write on me?!”

“Another thing I’m gonna do in the next six months, no big.”

Prompto makes an instinctive move towards the mirror, but Noctis grabs his arm with enough strength to send them colliding into one another. The look on his face is far too triumphant, arms fastened around Prompto’s entire upper body; shit, with best friends slash trolling part time boyfriends like these, who even needs enemies?

“…On second thought,” Prompto says dryly, “Maybe I’ll just take the dogs.”

Noctis’ grin grows even wider at that, and he looks so annoying and pretty all at once that it’s kind of impossible not to want to kiss that smile off his face; well, it’s either that or headbutting him, and Prompto’s always been far more partial to the former.

So he does – kiss Noctis, that is, the way he would have kissed Noctis a year ago if he hadn’t been so riddled with the fears that still weigh him down today. But there’s now a part of him that comes alive with the instant response, with Noctis leaning into him the moment their lips touch; it’s–– strong, and warm, and playful, like the scrape of Noctis’ teeth on his lower lip.

In all fairness, there’s nothing out of the ordinary about it. Prompto’s legs wrap around Noctis’ waist like they have done a hundred times before, and there’s a confidence to how Noctis plies his mouth open with his tongue. Okay, so the first stroke of that tongue always makes Prompto’s skin shiver, but that’s far from a foreign sensation either; he’s not sure, then, what really explains the way his brain suddenly turns off.

Well, not suddenly, no.

Maybe all it is is _inevitable_ , when Noctis’ hands slide down to his stomach, and something in Prompto’s mind screams _not enough_ ; after everything tonight, it can’t _be_ enough, to settle for this usual game. So, with a tilt of his head, the kiss takes an abrupt shift for the deeper as his tongue slides even farther into Noctis’ mouth, and the intensity draws out a spontaneous gasp – it seems to catch both of them by surprise, because this is an unexpectedly quick switch from what started as a perfectly normal kiss.

This is where normally one of them would pull back, offer some kind of quip or a shorthand joke to alleviate the tension. It’s a nervous tic in place for their second Rule Number Two – taking things slowly, in case… well, Prompto’s finding it difficult to remember _what_ purpose it originally served, when Noctis just grabs the back of his head and laps into the kiss twice as hard.

…Well, that sure escalated quickly. Again.

As soon as they come up for air, Prompto feels like there’s a merry-go-round in his head, complete with music and flashing lights. “I–– uh. Uhh.”

Meanwhile, Noctis blinks like he’s stoned. “Well–– that was––“ he begins, since _someone_ probably ought to comment on the difference in mood; but then Noctis’ eyes flick back up, and Prompto realizes that neither one of them really gives a shit, because there’s a limit to how much _talking_ you can stomach for one night.

Sure enough, Noctis’ mouth crashes back on his with a three second delay, only interrupted by the scramble of Prompto pulling off their shirts.

Okay, okay, okay. The rational part of Prompto’s brain is struggling to keep up, stalled by the lizard brain that revels in the chaos of the moment: the way Noctis staggers flat on his back, how Prompto almost bashes into the headboard, and how none of this could matter less when Noctis grips him by the hips and brings them down to grind against his own. It’s uncoordinated and messy and Prompto still groans into Noctis’ mouth, because the aggression not only jolts him with a second layer of pleasure, but is also _really fucking hot_.

It’s–– funny. For once it doesn’t take banter to pave the way for where this is headed; in fact, Prompto’s one hundred percent fine with wherever that is as long as it doesn’t stop.

“Prom, _fuck_ ,” comes Noctis’ personal narration as Prompto positively bites on his neck, and it’s kinda ridiculous that it’s taken them, what, less than a minute to go from normal to exceedingly hard, helped along by Prompto’s hand dipping in the small space between them; but much as the thought of jerking Noctis off until he cries out Prompto’s name makes him dizzy in the head, somehow the vibe of tonight feels–– less and more urgent, both at the same time.

It’s gotta be all the feelings shit. Who would have guessed _that_ would turn out to be the ultimate horniness switch?

Whether Noctis has figured out as much, he doesn’t even flinch when Prompto’s fingers slide back over his hip. Halting just short of pushing down Noctis’ underwear, it’s a wordless question that briefly makes Noctis’ stomach flex; there’s a sharp breath, then the warmth of Noctis’ hand as it moves over Prompto’s to help him along. “Yeah, it’s–– yeah.”

There’s a light snort where they fumble a bit, arms crossing as Noctis shifts to relieve Prompto of the rest of his own clothes; stumbling for balance, Prompto almost knees Noctis in the stomach and _nearly_ crushes his dick, but it’s cool, it’s fine, they’re–– kinda super naked for what’s probably the first time, at least if the gauge of super-nakedness is a heavily breathing prince pressing his overly excitable cock against your own.

It is quite possibly the most brain-breaking and arousing thing Prompto has witnessed in his life.

Meanwhile, Noctis seems completely oblivious to Prompto’s meltdown, just staring at him like drinking in something he’s spent years thirsting from afar. He doesn’t even think to question why Prompto’s still wearing his bracelet; over the years, Noctis must have started taking it at face value.

“So uh–– you remember that–– thing I wrote,” Noctis now manages, a shade of scarlet running down his neck, “Y’know–– for the future?”

Prompto swallows.

“Well, we are technically–– in the future,” he offers, in the hope that Noctis will pick up his cue from these words alone; the scarlet on Noctis’ skin grows even deeper, which is proof enough that he does.

“So… we’re doing this?”

“I do believe we are, buddy,” comes Prompto’s honest response, and realizes he’s not even nervous about it – like somewhere between now and the sudden turn of that kiss, they were bound to end up here all along. Or maybe there’s something about the relief of finally coming clean with his feelings, that makes everything else seem dauntless, in comparison.

Pushing upright, Noctis knocks Prompto back a little. As eager as he seems to continue with the former devil-may-care attitude, this part here? Kinda requires some direction. “…That means we, uh. Gotta decide who does what.”

Oh, yeah. Prompto hadn’t thought of that.

“I, uh. I’m fine with whatever––“ he coughs, a weird heat swirling in his stomach at the implication of both. “If you’ve got, like, some sort of preference?”

Noctis shrugs. “…Not really. Haven’t done either before, so one way or the other it’s like–– bungee jumping without a cord.”

And there it is again, the familiar nervous banter rearing its head; Prompto lets out a laugh and punches Noctis on the shoulder, because shit, with the way tonight is shaping out to be, they’re probably gonna need all the humour they can get.

So, positions then: they could flip a coin for it (which neither one of them has). They could do rock paper scissors (but that would imply someone losing, which is also not the case). In the end, Prompto’s eyes land on the photographs on his wall – from a trip outside Insomnia, back when they were sixteen. He yanks two down pictures, because he has an _idea_.

“Okay, I’m gonna shuffle these, and if you get this picture, it means you’re gonna top. If you get the other one, it means you won’t.” He pauses, scrunching his face at Noctis. “Wait, why are you looking at me like that?”

Noctis’ brow twitches. “Prom,” he says, trying to keep his voice level, “Those are photos of _Iggy and Gladio_.”

Really, Prompto fails to see the problem. “Yeah, so?” he shrugs, “It was that or some artistic shots of rock formations, so don’t get weird!”

Noctis groans, then shakes his head considering failure to comply will also delay his chances of getting laid. “This is _so_ disturbing, but whatever. Shuffle ‘em up.”

Prompto pulls back the arm Noctis eventually points at, and flips out the photo.

“Oh, cool,” he says, “You picked Gladio, so that means it’s your turn to top.”

“That’s,” Noctis chokes out, looking half ready to depart for the astral plane, “Probably the last combination of words I wanted to hear right before having sex, but okay.”

It’s really hard to stifle his cheekiness, as Prompto leans over to kiss the side of Noctis’ face. Is it strange he’s totally looking forward to this, a complete disaster as it might be? But then, all they’ve ever done is jump head first into things together, so even the prospect of landing in flames makes Prompto’s skin tingle.

“Oh, I’m sure I can come up with worse,” he grins, and this time it’s Noctis who punches him on the arm.

*

Were their lives a romantic comedy, what happens next would be a lot different.

Hearts would quiver. Loins would tremble. A compound with the word _meat_ in it would – well, throb, probably, before things fade to black. But thank fuck real life isn’t like that. 

Real life, on the other hand, also requires supplies that don’t appear out of thin air. It sort of takes away from the spontaneity of this escapade, but at least Prompto’s well-established relationship with his right hand means he’s not lacking in the lube department. Technically there’s also little worry of STDs or illegitimate babies, but to avoid making an extra mess Prompto still unearths a box from underneath his bed.

“ _To Chocobo Butt_ ,” he reads the card on the box out loud, _“On your 18th birthday, gl hf. Peace out, Gladio._ ”

He looks up to find Noctis facepalming against the wall. “Please tell me that’s _not_ a fucking box of _condoms_ that you got from my _Shield_.”

Because lying to the prince is probably against the Crownsguard or something, Prompto just pats Noctis on the shoulder.

“Hey, look at it this way, buddy: he’s quickly becoming the patron saint of our sex life,” he says, before spotting something written on the other side of the card. “Wait, there’s more… _P.S. Remember to protect the Prince_ –– Ohh, so _that’s_ what he was referring to before!!”

“I,” Noctis mutters, now drilling his head on the side of Prompto’s arm, “Want to die.”

It’s pretty cool how they can go from highkey aroused to lowkey fatal in the span of a few minutes, but this intermission is also taking a physical toll on Noctis’ body – which will be rather inconvenient for Prompto later. To counter Noctis’ existential crisis, then, Prompto grabs him by the shoulders and unceremoniously knocks Noctis on his back. “H-hey!!”

“Time to get your head back in the game, buddy,” Prompto notes, and whether he has tapped into some super power he never knew existed, or is simply more inclined to get fucked than fuck around, the words ring out with full confidence; any surprise from Noctis’ part is drowned in a prolonged kiss, one that breaks when Prompto looks up with puzzled thought. “Or wait–– isn’t it the other way around?”

“The hell are you––“ Noctis begins, but the rest of his words pass more in a hiss through his nose at the enthusiasm of Prompto’s lips dropping down to his chest. Dragging down to his abdomen, the kisses turn more into messy tongue by the time Prompto stops at Noctis’ lower stomach – by which point the hiss has turned into a choked sound at the back of Noctis’ throat.

“Okay, so for the sake of clarity,” Prompto confirms, although given the way Noctis’ cock has spurred right back to life, it seems more like rhetorical question. “What happens next is that I’m gonna go down on you, if that’s cool.”

Noctis should win some kind of award for the aloofness he manages to force into his voice. “Uh–– yeah, knock yourself out, dude.”

That’s a literal joke just waiting to happen, and it speaks volumes of Prompto’s commitment that he skips it in favour of dipping his head back down, and kissing the side of Noctis’ thigh. Since that whole bath tub fishing fiasco, he’s only done this exactly once before (turns out Noctis really _wasn’t_ lying when he insisted giving head is hot), but having been on the receiving end twice (well, _yeah_ ), he’s now got a fairly good idea of what works; it’s with this courage that he gives Noctis’ cock a couple of light strokes with his fingers before leaning in to lick along the underside with his tongue.

Maybe it’s the whimper Noctis is unable to stifle, or how his fingers twist in Prompto’s hair, but it’s very hard to feign patience right now for all that slow tease that Noctis always utilizes so much. Instead, he wastes little time just taking Noctis into his mouth, but despite the abruptness –or because of it?– it draws out a low, guttural sound. The shiver it sends down Prompto is stronger than the shots on his 17th birthday, because there’s something about the rush of control that leaves him drunk on power; this better not foreshadow some turn to the dark side, he thinks, before focusing back on the steady pace of his lips dragging over Noctis’ cock.

But ah well – one quick glance at Noctis washes all thoughts from Prompto’s mind; one hand fisting the bedspread, chest heaving and face flush with honest need, Noctis would be worth all the supervillain awakenings in the world.

Man, leave it to that idiot to _always_ find new ways to turn Prompto on.

“Prom,” Noctis breathes, fingers sliding from Prompto’s hair to his shoulder, reluctantly pushing him back not long after. “You might wanna–– stop soon, if we wanna––“

Oh, yeah. The memory of their original mission is enough to deter his urge to just keep going, tempting as that also is; for all his own daze, Noctis sure is swift to reverse their positions so that Prompto’s back hits the headboard. He stops briefly only to seize Prompto in a kiss that’s more tongue than lips, really, before pushing past to rummage for the lube stashed under Prompto’s bed. Well, lube _s_ , in plural.

“––The hell man, are you trying to run a business with these?”

Now _Prompto_ wants to die. “It was a bulk discount!! And I have delicate skin!!”

Noctis’ head winds back, and with a strange mixture of hilarity and fondness and arousal alike, he leans to kiss the freckles on Prompto’s cheekbone. “Haha, I know right? I love your stupid skin.”

“ _THAT’S A BANNED WORD, DUDE_ ,” Prompto shrieks right on cue, but it comes out doused in laughter; by this point even the Astrals couldn’t tell what the mood of this scene is supposed to be, but it also feels–– exactly like _them_ again, because the two of them might not be made for fancy words but gods, were they ever made for this mess.

This is why the embarrassment doesn’t hit even after Noctis elbows Prompto’s knees open, pausing to run the mechanics over in his head.

“So uh–– quick question. Have you ever–– like, when you’re whacking off––“

“––When I’m participating in my _gentleman’s time_ , you mean,” Prompto talks over him, doing a pretty good impersonation of Ignis’ voice. Then he flicks Noctis on the forehead. “Dude, what do you _think_? We’ve seen each other like–– four times during my training, so _yeah_ , I’ve kinda–– fucked myself in more ways than you wanna know.”

The look on Noctis’ face is… an interesting one. “I mean,” he responds, “I wouldn’t _mind_ knowing the details.”

The look on Prompto’s face is… enough to make Noctis lift his hands. “ _Okay, okay_ , just checking here,” he huffs, then gives a sheepish smile. “I just don’t want to–– accidentally hurt you, and all that–– other emotional crap.”

“Yeah, we don’t deal with emotions here,” Prompto counters, and lifts his chin to stare defiantly at the ceiling. “Hear that, universe? This is gonna be one hundred percent _just sex_ , okay? So go screw over someone else, ‘cause absolutely _no-one_ in this house is in love with _anyone_!!”

“Dude,” Noctis hiccups, like he can’t decide whether to laugh at Prompto or himself more. “You–– you just said the forbidden word, so I guess–– both of us are going to jail.”

Catching his error, Prompto lets out a groan; _whatever_ , he thinks and shuts Noctis up with a kiss, _if all of this is headed straight to hell, might as well just cut in on the passing lane_.

But it’s really not a bad lane to be on, once Noctis’ fingers slid down to his stomach and infuriatingly past his cock, and the wetness of his fingertips sends a chill across Prompto’s skin. Suddenly he’s very thankful for his lack of former impulse control, since it’s a _lot_ easier to be worked open after the nights he’s spent picturing Noctis doing this to him, or doing this to Noctis, or some bizarre amalgamation of the two (man, some of those fantasies are _weird_ ).

He still bites down on his lip at the fingers that slowly enter him, because of _who_ they belong to. It can’t help but overwhelm him a little, as the combination of those fantasies and reality reverberates all the way to his heart. Noctis’ shoulders tense at this whimper, but Prompto’s grip on his arm holds them both in place; as soon as they both relax, Prompto lifts his chin and gives Noctis a flustered smile. “It’s–– cool, Noct, I’m––“

It’s hard to finish those words with anything sensible, because Noctis’ eyes glow positively _purple_ with magic as he finishes with, “––Fucking gorgeous,” and yep, that _definitely_ speeds Prompto’s heart rate up to about 200 miles per hour.

“…Careful, dude,” he swallows, “You’re gonna make it sound like–– you’re gay for me.”

The slip of the tongue must have left Noctis a little embarrassed, as he comes to a brief halt before his fingers pick up their former rhythm. Once they do, there’s something more deliberate to the motion, accompanied by a self-sardonic smile.

“Oh wow,” Noctis murmurs, “I wonder what gave _that_ away.”

Prompto tries to pull a face, but it’s quick to melt in a sigh; when Noctis leans in to kiss him again, there’s gradually less and less discomfort at each thrust until Prompto’s starting to grow impatient. Besides, it doesn’t seem right to neglect Noctis this long – yeah, sure, it’s hot (not to mention _flattering_ ) to watch him get so into this whole fingering display, but Prompto’s pretty sure he can recognize a restless cock when he sees one, and this angle isn’t exactly helping Prompto reach it.

“Okay, so––“ he pants, “Your dick’s probably drafting his own profile for a dating site by now, so maybe we should––“

Noctis _pftts_ in Prompto’s face again, but also seems more than eager to comply. There’s a bit of fumbling with the condom (“C’mon bro, you sat right next to me in sex ed, you should know what to do!!” “Cut me some slack–– if I can’t remember shit it’s ‘cause I kept staring at _you_ ”) and even more tumbling with the right position (“Yeah, no, that’s just gonna–– snap my dick in two”) before they kind of, sort of, work their way around an angle that should work for _this_ exact purpose.

Settled between Prompto’s legs, Noctis finally relaxes his shoulders and braces Prompto’s hip.

“This,” he says, as the fingers of his left hand intertwine with Prompto’s own, “Is probably gonna feel–– weird, but not for long. Just keep holding onto my hand and don’t let go.”

Whoa, how’s _that_ for the world’s biggest déjà vu?

There’s no wisecrack that Prompto can follow that up with though, finding solace in gripping that hand when Noctis cautiously starts to enter him. It… hurts less than he’d feared for his first time (another point for lack of impulse control), while still undeniably distracting; nonetheless, it’s all worth it for the grunt that passes Noctis’ lips, like a helpless wave of pleasure that Prompto can almost feel transmitting into his own skin.

Noctis’ face is quick to set in a warzone of caution and want, which Prompto fixes for him by hooking a leg around Noctis’ back. It promptly pushes him all the way in, and Noctis chokes out a string of expletives into Prompto’s shoulder; yeah, maybe Prompto’s got quite a selective self-defense mechanism, because as much as he appreciates Noctis’ consideration, he’s _still_ not some fragile flower.

“Look–– we can save the stargazing for later,” he swallows, “‘Cause I kinda need you to–– uh, move with me here, buddy.”

It’s just enough humour with a hint of taunt, the exact recipe to spark Noctis’ competitive edge; hey, who knew their multiplayer dynamics could translate so well into having sex?

Then again, Prompto sure hopes Noctis won’t rage quit if things go balls up –which, by the way, another literal joke waiting to happen– because once those eyes flash with another _Fine, you’re on_ , an actual shudder runs all the way down Prompto’s spine at the way Noctis’ thumbs press into his hip bone. The following thrust is much less hesitant, and while it still–– stings a little, the pain is quickly surpassed by a heat that runs far deeper: the selfish desire to feel just how much Noctis _wants_ him, regardless of the cost.

Not that Prompto needs to feed off on a high of masochism and ego, though; as soon as Noctis figures out some semblance of rhythm and his arms stop trembling, his back arches to catch Prompto in a clumsy kiss and a hand palms over his cock.

“Fuck–– you’re–– I’m––“ Noctis manages like something strangled, because boy, this must be a near religious experience with their level of experience – which is also why the words coupled with the tug of Noctis’ hand makes Prompto breathe an obscene sound in return, because _no_ _shit_ does it feel good, to finally find that centre of pleasure.

But hey, as the two of them have long since established, there’s no shame in novelty. Even without Noctis jerking him off, Prompto’s ninety nine percent certain he would rank this at the top of his _Top Three Favourite Sex Acts (Royal Edition)_ ; just the warmth of Noctis’ body, his half-lidded eyes and this bizarre intimacy between them leaves Prompto burning from the inside out. Besides, with each thrust his body seems to grow less confused and more responsive to Noctis’ cock, which seems like a sign that he’s going to revise that top three in the near future.

Tonight, however, is not the night they perfect this particular couple gymnastics – hey, it’s not a tale of _that_ much wish-fulfilment. As soon as he starts losing himself in the rhythm, Noctis’ breath grows ragged and he repeats Prompto’s full name like there’s an extra world hidden in the second syllable; it’s obvious he’s close, which Prompto’s got no objection to, since it’s often just as exhilarating watching him come than actually hit that peak himself.

So, yanking Noctis down by the hair, Prompto breathes in his ear: “Next time I’m–– gonna fuck you, and then we’ve got six months to–– destroy your entire apartment with all the things I imagined us–– doing to each other, over the past months.”

Like the flick of a switch, Noctis’ eyes spread wide, and he grabs Prompto’s hips.

And so he comes with a low moan and a cluster of shudders, passing down from Noctis’ shoulders to that deathly grip; and god fucking damn it if that’s not enough to punch all air out of Prompto’s lungs, because the reality of Noctis actually climaxing inside of him, well–– it’s enough to sear through him like live wire, his own nails digging into Noctis’ skin.

It’s only after Noctis pulls out and curls around him like a cat, that Prompto even remembers only one of them got off. Incidentally, this is the main thing on Noctis’ mind; his chest is warm and clammy against Prompto’s back, teeth grazing his neck as Noctis fights back the drowsiness long enough to finish jerking him off. It’s a laid-back yet committed venture that doesn’t take very long, with Prompto crying out against his lips – but hey, whoever says the Prince of Lucis isn’t dedicated to his calling? Clearly doesn’t know shit.

Afterwards, they both breathe in soft silence, and there’s an eighty percent chance Noctis falls asleep the second he closes his eyes. Prompto’s well aware of the urgent need to clean up, but for some reason… all he can think of is that on the other side of that window, the rain has come to a halt.

Six months.

That’s how long he’s got, to memorize each inch of these moments, to bury them into his memory like the light that lingers; but whether this romantic comedy will turn into a Greek tragedy, only the Astrals can ultimately tell.

“Just fucking watch me,” Prompto still hears himself murmur to all the spectres in this room, “One of these days we’re–– gonna figure out what the fuck we’re doing, and–– it’s gonna be amazing.”

Maybe he means the sex.

(Maybe he means everything.)

To his surprise, Noctis shifts in his half-sleep, breath tickling against Prompto’s neck.

“…Nah,” Noctis murmurs. “Pretty sure it already is.”

*

Later that night, after Prompto finally manages to kick Noctis up and into to the bathroom, he remembers the writing on his back. 

Scrambling towards his mirror, Prompto twists his head around to read the area beneath his shoulder blades, but most of the text has already smudged away with sweat.

Still, the following remains:

 

_nda showhovey_

 

He tries to breathe steady, and tries to breathe even.

It doesn’t help.

This… is going to be an interesting six months.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time on the same channel: the reason why this whole fic exists, probably, a.k.a self-indulgence central 2000. Or, in the words of Panic at the Disco:
> 
>  
> 
> _"If you go out you might pass out in a drain pipe"_  
>  _Oh yeah, don't threaten me with a good time_
> 
>    
> (The next update might take a little longer than a week again bc real life and shit, but I’ll do my best. Thanks to everyone who’s come to chat etc, it’s really motivating! As usual, hmu my socials @icecreambat if you feel like it.)
> 
> EDIT: since some people have asked about this, thought I'd clarify that if you didn't figure out what it says in that scrambled word mess, worry not - you're not meant to (unless you're super good at guessing!), apart from the two words that you sort of _can_ make out. Sorry for any confusion!


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